


Strange Trails

by hello_nebraska



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Mage Reader, Multi, POV Second Person, PTSD, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, a more realistic "reader gets sucked into video game world" story, gender ambiguous reader, minor female hawke/fenris
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 61,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_nebraska/pseuds/hello_nebraska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You arrive at Skyhold with one thing on your mind: joining the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. long way from the land that i left

**Author's Note:**

> The title and chapter names are taken from Lord Huron's album, Strange Trails.
> 
> as i said in the summary, this will be a rewrite of the da:i storyline. i've been seeing a lot of da:i criticism lately and i thought, hey, why don't i use this for something? so i'm using these critiques to rewrite da:i into something more realistic and interesting. for instance, the villains will be more present and dangerous; the inquisition will not be blindly trusted by all; the mage-templar war won't only be in the background; and more. 
> 
> the reader will have their own plot and character arc.
> 
> note: i'll try to keep the reader as gender neutral as possible. if i mess up, please let me know!

 

“The forest of legend is, of course, the Korcari Wilds. […] Beyond the mists are tracts of snow, white-capped mountains, and entire fields of ice. It is a land far too cold for mankind to survive, yet the Chasind eke out an existence even there, and they tell of horrors beyond the Wilds that the lowland folk could not begin to comprehend.”    
  
From Land of the Wilds, by Mother Ailis, Chantry Scholar, 9:18 Dragon

 

You wake in a forest. 

Dark trees tower above you, their branches obscuring the sky, and for several moments all you do is stare.  _ Pines,  _ your mind surmises. Is there any other type of tree with needles? You aren’t sure but, then again, you never claimed to be a tree expert. Not like it particularly matters -- knowing what type of  _ tree  _ isn’t going to help you, unless there is some mind reading hiker whose assistance is contingent on you naming the trees in this forest. If  _ that  _ is the case, you’d like to ask them why they are such a terrible tree-obsessed human being, because only tree-obsessed human beings would let someone die because they could not name the type of  _ tree  _ and --

Hold up. 

Why the fuck are there trees _? _

You blink up at the foliage. This is not your room. The cold, sharp ground bites into your skin. This is not a dream. Those are trees above you --  _ trees  _ \-- and -- and --

You scramble to your feet, the soles of boots you’ve never seen before sliding on the slick snow, and cling to a tree. You press your palms flat against the bark like you’re feeling for vibrations, but in reality, you’re only looking for something to ground you, and strain to listen. The forest is silent. Your heartbeat slows, giving way to the biting cold. The bark feels cool against your forehead. 

If you were smart, you’d stay put. The first rule of getting lost is to stay where you are, but you can’t shake the feeling of unease this clearing gives you -- something in the back of your mind is nagging you,  _ begging you,  _ to leave and you’re afraid what might happen if you ignore it. 

You peek around the tree, expecting to see some crazy ax-murderer, but there is only a dark cloth lying in the snow. You walk towards it. 

The cloth is thick and wooly. Soft, too, not scratchy like some of those winter coats you’ve owned, and you wonder if you should take it.  _ What if it belongs to someone,  _ you ask yourself, then laugh. You’re lost in the woods and you’re worried about  _ stealing _ ? The cloak catches when you pull it, but breaks free fairly easily, and you wrap it around your shoulders before you notice the corpse in front of you. 

Your heart stops. 

The corpse is on the ground in a heap, like they had died standing up and then collapsed. They are dressed in black robes with intricate patterns of gold woven into them and rings of all colors and sizes adorn their fingers. You stare, mind stuttering to a complete halt. Empty eyes stare back at you. The snow surrounding is pristine -- there is no blood, nor any wounds that you can. It’s like they just… died. 

You look and see another cloak lying a few feet from you. Another body, this one uncovered, lays a few feet from that. Your heart jumps, drowning out your thoughts. You turn back to the clearing and see another body dangling from the branches of a pine like a marionette. Your stomach churns. You wrap the cloak tighter around your shoulders and _run_.   


	2. just the endless frozen pines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finished this and thought, might as well! so here it is.

The sun has set on you three times and you are no closer to safety. The forest is endless and you’re almost positive that you’re walking in the wrong direction; the trees grow denser the further you go, blocking out what little view you had of the sky entirely. The snow isn’t letting up, but it’s not getting any higher, either. You’re not even sure how it reaches the ground.

You continue walking out of spite. You aren’t about to let this natural monstrosity _win!_ The forest mocks you, its fallen trees and gnarled roots rising up to look like people when you turn your head _just_ right and its animals hovering at the edge of your vision, reminding you that they are there, biding their time, waiting. You pull the cloak tighter around you and step over a large root, trying to keep your thoughts from turning to anything depressing. 

You think back to how you got there, but your memory fails you; the last thing you remember is going to bed. There are pieces — voices, figures, a bright light — but they slip through your grasp like smoke, disappearing before you can glean anything from them. Thinking about it for too long makes your head hurt, so you focus on something else. 

Unfortunately, there isn’t much else around. 

 

>><<

 

“When I get home,” you kick a ball of snow into the air with the toe of your boot, “I am going to go somewhere nice and hot. No more snow for me.” 

The snow is beginning to melt despite the continually dropping temperature. Every gust of wind turns you into a shivering mess, makes your teeth chatter so loud you’re certain the whole forest can hear you. You pick up the pace, but that only warms you for so long; soon enough you’re back to freezing. You’d give just about anything for a fire right now, even your left arm — hell, if someone came up and offered you a fire only if they could _kill_ you after you warmed up, you’d take it!

“S-stupid forest,” you grumble, rubbing your hands on your arms to heat yourself up. 

The forest is, otherwise, quiet; if not for the tracks you sometimes see in the snow, you’d think that no animals lived here at all. _They’re probably warm in their little homes,_ you think, _lucky bastards._

You stop at a thawing stream to drink before you head off. If only you had a canteen — who knows when you’ll come across water again. 

Sometime later a gasp startles you into stopping. You turn, searching for the source through the trees, and your eyes land on a cloaked figure straight ahead of you. Their back is to you and their shoulders are hunched and trembling like they’re crying. You take a hesitant step toward them, mind running through all possible scenarios: they’re your kidnapper and they’re here to murder you; they are also lost; they’re not your kidnapper but they’re still going to murder you; they know where civilization is. 

Try as you might, your mind keeps circling back to that last scenario: they knew where civilization is. Your heart leaps at the thought, hope swells in your chest. What if they know? What if you’re right? You hesitate. The figure doesn’t move. The cloak covers most of their body, but you can see hands and gray hair peeking out from underneath. They don’t _look_ like a murderer and, well… even if they are, you’re going to die anyway. 

“E-excuse me,” you call, walking towards them. They stop trembling and turn, but you can’t see their face. “Can you help me? I think I’m lost.” 

The figure’s hooded head dips in a nod. You smile. “Thank goodness,” you tell them, “I’ve been wandering for days! I thought I was going to freeze to death.” You stop in front of them.

Sharp nails rake across your cheek. 

You stumble back, hands clutching your bleeding face. "What the fuck," you scream, eyes wide. 

The figure lunges at you again, but you stumble out of the way in time. _I’m going to die!_ you think, heart pounding. You back away, eyes locked on them. Whatever disguise they had been wearing falls away; the sobbing figure is gone, replaced by a face with only a mouth and too many rows of teeth. Your heart stops. 

_I don’t want to die,_ you think helplessly. Despair coils itself around your heart and constricts, stealing the breath from your lungs as the figure comes closer. 

You are going to die.

This monster is going to kill you. This monster with its large mouth and its four sets of teeth is going to _rip you apart._ You take a half step back, thoughts flying. What can you do? You can’t kill it. You probably can’t outrun it, either; you haven’t eaten in who knows how long. 

“P-Please,” you whimper, but the creature ignores you. 

You throw your hands up as the monster lunges, bracing for its claw. A gust of air sends you stumbling a step forward and something _thuds._ The forest goes silent. You lower your arms. Frozen in front of you, its arms outstretched and ready to strike, its mouth open wide, is the monster. 

All in a block of ice rooted to the ground. 

You tap the block and it _clinks_. You rest your palm on it and push, but it doesn’t budge. What did this? There’s no one around you. Did it freeze itself? Or… 

No. 

You shake your head; there is no possible way that _you_ froze it. Things like that don’t happen in the real world — there are no moments where your powers manifest at _just the right time._ If you were in a movie or a video game, maybe, but this was _real life._

Your eyes are drawn back to the frozen monster. Your cheek throbs. 

“There’s no way,” you repeat, quieter. Could you have done that? The creature in front of you negates any argument about what should and should not be in the realm of possibility — now all that remains is _did you?_ If you did, everything has changed. This can keep you alive. You have to do it again. 

Slowly, still thinking yourself foolish for even considering this, you cup your hands and concentrate.

You aren’t sure what to think about. A moment ago, it had been a life or death situation — there was no conscious act of pulling your mana, or whatever. What do you even think about? _Ice_? You take a deep breath to calm yourself, steadfastly ignoring the pain of your cheek. 

Well, it’s worth a try. 

So, Ice.

You imagine cupping it in your hands; the way it burns when it touches your skin, the cold air that emanates from it, the water that pools in your hands when it melts. Something shifts deep inside of you, desperate for release, and sends tingles through your body. Your hair stands on end and goosebumps prickle your flesh. 

A chunk of ice springs to life in your open palm seconds later, spinning in the air. 

“Holy shit.” 


	3. meet me in the woods tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter three has been heavily edited. i added a lot more stuff, made it a lot more... not as shitty.
> 
> warning: a section towards the middle does contain some pretty heavy suicidal thoughts. just a heads up
> 
> enjoy!

Note to past self: go to the gym more, _asshole._

You sit down heavily on the stump, your heart pounding so hard you think it might actually explode. At this rate, you are never going to get out of here. You’re only, what, a mile or two from where you started? Maybe? Who the hell knows. If it were possible, you’d gauge it by the position of the sun, but guess what! You can’t see the fucking sun! The leaf ceiling is so thick that only a certain amount of light reaches the ground and it never changes. You could have walked for hours or only minutes and you’ll never know for sure. 

Opting for hours sounds like a good idea. Might keep you (relatively) sane for a while longer. Still, you don’t know how much longer you can keep this up. You can hardly walk a few hours (minutes?) before wanting to pass out, how are you supposed to do this for days? You want to stop; maybe set up camp and wait for a search party, but… 

That demon flashes before your eyes, sending a chill down your spine. 

No. You can’t stay. You can’t let another thing like that find you. You suck in a deep breath, wrap the cloak tighter around you, and begin again. 

>><<

Something is pacing the clearing. 

Every step it takes shakes the ground and rattles your bones. From your hiding spot in a thick bush, you can see its tree-trunk sized legs as it walks and the club it drags behind it. You watch as it wanders, circling the clearing you had once been camping in. You think it’s looking for you. 

It stops beside a tree, using its large hand to push aside some branches covering the ground. It peers at the snow but after finding nothing, drops the branches and continues walking. Your heart nearly stops. It’s smart. Shit. You wriggle back in the bush as slowly as you can, trying to keep the leaves from rustling, hoping to run away when it isn’t looking — 

_WHAM_

You startle, eyes blown wide and heart hammering against your ribs. The creature stands with its stick in the air, staring at the tree it has just felled. It hisses — a word, maybe — before moving to the next tree and repeating. You look at the tree your hiding spot is flush against and swallow hard. 

Time to leave!

Once the creature’s back is turned, you back out of the bush. It raises its club as you get to your knees and you watch in horrified fascination. Now that you can see its face, you know exactly what it is: a giant. A disgusting, slobbering, blood covered giant. You don’t think you’ve ever seen something so horrifying. 

It slams the club into the tree and it slams into the ground, tearing you from your thoughts. It turns its attention to the next tree and, thankfully, its back is still to you. You turn and run. 

 

>><<

A crack of thunder echoes through the forest. 

You huddle beneath the low hanging branches of a pine, your thick cloak pulled around your body, and wait for the storm to subside. You had been _so close_ to getting out of here you could practically taste it — you were just hours away and every step brought you closer — when the storm hit and sent you running for cover. Slush splatters against the forest floor, sprinkling your boots with water. 

It could at least have the decency to snow, you think. You wouldn’t have minded if it were actual snow; slush is disgusting and hellish and you can already see yourself slipping on it a thousand times once the storm ends. Just imagine — you survive a kidnapping only to kill yourself on some slippery ground! What a great story that’ll be!

Too bad there’ll be no one to tell it. 

No. Don’t think like that. Too depressing. 

You pull the cloak tighter around yourself. Any second now, you’re sure there will be a search party cresting one of those snowy hills and you’ll be rescued from this forest. There has to be someone looking for you, after all! And they can’t be too far away!

Any second now. 

>><<

You find paw prints in the snow.  

There are a couple sets of them, large and bloody and fresh. They look canine, but they’re too large to be any sort of domesticated dog (you think). That means only one thing: wolves. 

Not good.  

The prints dot the landscape in front of you, heading off where you had been going. You think twice about that direction — what if you run into a pack? You wouldn’t stand a chance, magic or no. 

A quick glance around reveals that to your right there are less trees. Less trees means less hiding places. You decide to go left. 

>><<

You’ve created a way to log the passage of time. 

At first, you just based it on when you went to sleep, but after awhile you discovered that it’s _really hard to sleep_ when you’re alone in the forest and so that was a no. Now you’ve been in the forest long enough that you can actually distinguish between night and day — because those still exist — and so you’re using that, like ye olde adventurer!

At night, it’s a shade darker and so much quieter; the only sounds that break the silence are crickets and those bad boys only sing for a few hours. Assuming those few hours are night time (and you’re pretty sure they are), you have a way to base your internal clock. Yay!

Less yay, however, is calculating how long you’ve been in the woods. You began this a few days ago and, well, that’s the issue: it’s been a few days — almost a week. That’s not even counting however long it was before you figured this out. If you had to guess, though, you’d say it’s been…

A month. 

Not great. You’re trying to stay positive, but it’s getting hard. How long before someone finds you?

>><<

 

No one is coming for you. 

You’ve been dancing around it for weeks, lying to yourself: only a few more days, only a little longer, only a few more miles. But no one is coming. Maybe no one ever was, or — you don’t know. Maybe you’re already dead and this is your hell. Or maybe your entire life before this was just a dream. Or maybe _this_ isn’t real. You don’t know. 

you don’t know you don’t know you don’t know _YOU DON’T KNOW_  

All you know is that it has been weeks since you woke up in these woods and you’ve yet to see a single sign of life. 

>><<

The smell of rotting, rancid flesh always precedes the arrival of the dead. It hits you full force, the strength of it making you stumble, before the corpses shamble into view. Their skin is mottled gray and yellow, like a bruise, with pieces of flesh hanging and dropping off them; some are missing limbs and some are more skeleton than corpse. 

They are little more than a nuisance. You can walk past them without fearing attack; mostly they just wander aimlessly into the deeper parts of the forest, moaning. 

You find them completely dead — or re-dead? — on the forest floor, their bodies torn apart, and wonder if they aren’t so much monsters are they are food. 

>><<  


Sometimes you just want to lay down and die.  

It’d make things a lot less painful if you just let yourself starve to death. Or freeze to death. So much easier. 

But you don’t. You won’t. 

You know it would be so much better for you, but you can’t bring yourself to pull the trigger. This cowardly part of you won’t do it and you hate yourself for it. Why can’t you let yourself be happy? Why won’t you just fucking end this? 

“Damn it,” you hiss through clenched teeth, blinking back tears. The forest offers no comfort, just cold that clings to your bones.

>><<

It’s a little embarrassing, but you’d forgotten about your magic.

Stupid, right? How could someone forget they can make ice appear at the drop of a hat? Well, you did. You only remember when some animal startles you and icicles spring up from the ground to gore it.  

A gruesome reminder, but an important one nonetheless.  

Magic will keep you alive for however long you stay in this forest —

(or give you the means to End It)

— It’ll certainly make getting food easier; you can shoot instead of chase. You try to practice as much as you can: conjuring ice into your palm; shooting snowballs into a tree; or calling it from the ground to stab something. It works, but it tires you out. You find that only an hour of practice leaves you too drained to do much else. 

So, for lack of anything better to do, you determine an exercise regimen: conjure ice for as long as you can.  

Boring, yes, but after a few tries, you find that it works. Little by little, your stamina grows. The ice stays for an hour, then two, then three — soon enough, you’ll be able to keep it up for a whole day! The thought excites you enough to keep going. 

>><<

You’ve encountered something you never thought would be a problem: you don’t know how to braid.  

Or, you do, just not on yourself. It’s hard when you can’t see what you’re doing. You run your fingers through your hair to get the kinks out, marveling at how long it’s gotten while you’ve been there. It’s about to your knees.

You hate it. 

Long hair sucks! It gets stuck in tree branches! You desperately want to cut it off, but you have nothing sharp. You briefly consider using the ice but, again, not sharp! For now, all you can do is tie it. You pull it into a messy bun and use a strand of hair to wrap it up. 

>><<  


fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck 

what the fuck? is going on? you can’t breath — but you don’t know why — and

FUCK

You suck in a shallow breath. There’s something gripping your hair so hard ripping it out tearing it out but you can’t make it _stop._ You hate it. You’re breathing is too shallow and too fast — you know this. You know it. In the back of your mind, you _know_ whats happening. It’s not new to you, but, it’s so different. It’s so much _worse._ You can barely make heads or tails of anything. You rock back and forth, eyes screwed and hot water streaming down your face.  

you can’t catch your breath. all you can hear is that breathing — the harshness of it grates against your ears. Everything else is silent around you. It always is. There are no animals, no wind to blow through the trees, no storms. It’s too fucking quiet.

>><<

It’s hard to focus.

You fade in and out. You’ll come to on your feet having walked miles from wherever you were before, completely at a loss over how much time has passed. Sometimes you can remember it; just walking aimlessly in some direction, ignoring the animals and the trees that get in your way. It’s like you’re on autopilot, and it scares the shit out of you.

What’s happening? 

>><<

Magic makes things easier. Playing with it makes you stay in the present; you don’t drift. It tires you out a lot faster, but if that’s the price you have to pay for lucidity, then so be it. You’ll suffer through it.  

Your improvement excites you. It gives you a reason to keep going — the joy of keeping ice in your hand for hours on end makes you feel alive again. It makes you stop thinking about the forest and the long journey; makes you focus on that ice, empty your head of all thoughts except for magic. It’s comforting.

>><<

This is not how you imagined it would be. Fiction makes it seem so cool; you get stabbed, you keel over, you say some cool final line, and then you die. It’s easy. 

This… isn’t like that. 

You think — ah, fuck, it’s hard to think. It’s fucking hard to… shit. You feel cold and numb all over, except for the throbbing in your side. That’s where the wound is. Some cut or stab wound or It’s bleeding a lot. The blood oozes through your fingers and stains the snowy ground beneath you. Last time you looked, it was way too much. You’d look again, but you’re so dizzy — the world is rocking and spinning with you trapped against it; it feels like you’re on a boat at sea being tossed and thrown across the deck. You think that if you open your eyes, you’d be spinning too much to see anything and you might throw up. You don’t want to throw up.  

You press your hand harder against the wound, but it doesn’t help. Pressure, you think. You need pressure. If you had fire you could burn it closed. Or sew it closed. But you have snow. 

Light dances behind your eyelids. You groan, waving your hand to make it go away, but it doesn’t, and your hand flops lifelessly back onto the snow. “Stop,” you mumble, head lolling to the side. The lights keep dancing. The pain in your side begins to dull. There’s gonna be a bruise — you fucking hate that. Getting… hit and not knowing what got you. Waking up with a bruise and not knowing where it came from. 

You press your hand against it, testing the bruise, but it doesn’t hurt much. Maybe it won’t be that bad… you can’t even remember why you were so worried before. Just a bruise. You crack an eye open to look at it, but there’s a bright light in the way. Your nose crinkles in disgust, “Go ‘way,” you mumble, batting it with your hand, but the bright light just shines brighter before settling on your side once more. You close your eyes and turn your head, annoyed, but too tired to bother anymore. It’ll be gone when you wake. You drift into unconsciousness and the pain is no more. 

>><<

You wake feeling better than you have in months. 

Your eyes open to the leaf ceiling and small flakes of snow falling from the sky. It’s relaxing, but strange. Something is nagging at you. You roll to the left and your eyes go wide, the memory of your last conscious moment suddenly flooding your mind.

Blood.

You remember being gored by that… thing. You had been expecting to die. There was no way you could heal that wound, especially with what little medical knowledge you have. How are you still alive? You sit in the snow and pull you shirt up, inspecting the side where the wound had been. But it’s not there.

>><<

Spikes of ice erupt from the snowy ground at the snap of your fingers — figuratively, because you can’t snap — and you smile. Had anything been there, it would be dead. Or severely injured. You turn your attention to the pine tree in front of you and three small shards of ice form in your hand. 

You step back, assume a position that seems to be working for throwing, and aim at the tree. You throw. 

_thunk thunk thunk_  

Each shard makes a satisfying sound when it hits its mark. Your smile widens. The ice melts back into the air. 

>><<

At night, when the monsters prowl the forest floor and your nerves keep you awake, you find it hard to lie to yourself.

_I could stay here,_ you’d think during the day, _I like it._  

But you don’t. You want to go home. 

>><<

Your hand glows bright and the skin beneath knits itself back together. A thin line of pink appears where the wound had once been, the only indication that something had been amiss. You run your hand along the scar, waiting for pain that does not come. 

You look at your hands, eyes wide.

>><<

When you were younger, you always wanted to be a superhero — hell, you still do — but you never had the opportunity. With this magic of yours, you were one step closer to achieving your dreams; now you just needed practice. 

You already had the mystical skills, but being able to conjure ice for two days straight wasn’t going to kill any bad guys. And throwing ice darts at trees that didn’t move wasn’t helping much, either. What you needed was something to beat up — something that could move.  

Every two nights, the corpses arrived for their annual “feed the demons” 5k. It was a safe way to practice, seeing as the dead didn’t respond to you no matter what. Your goal was to kill in one hit, which was a lot harder than it seemed; they might not attack you, but they did run from you. And they were fast little fuckers. On your first try, four had gotten away and one had fallen to your icy hand. 

Now… Well, you were better. Your face was calm as you stared down at seven dead corpses, but inside you were cheering. Finally… finally! You weren’t just a regular ol’ mage! You had skill, something that could keep the demons from killing you. No longer did you have to walk the forest fearing for your life — now you could fight back.

>><<

Your fist clenches against the bark of the tree and your breath catches in your throat. You thought…

The forest is still. No wind rustles the leaves and no snow falls from the heavens; all is calm and quiet. 

You hate it, but it’s not what this is about — you thought you saw someone. Over the crest of the hell behind you, there had been a person. _Someone._ Standing there, waving at you, and there were shapes of more people behind them. You had ran, eyes stinging with unshed tears and breath coming out in rasping gasps, ecstatic and elated that someone had found you.

But once you had reached the hill, no one was there. The forest had tricked you.

You slam your hand against the tree and sink to your knees, unable to hold back the sobs that wrack your frame. Why is this happening to you?

>><<

There are no seasons in these woods, just snow and less snow. It’s hard to tell the difference. Still, you manage. You’ve seen it change from snow to less snow a dozen times — maybe even more. That’s too many. 

>><<

Back in the Real World — called such because, hopefully, this is all a very long nightmare — you were very into pop culture. Movies, music, tv shows, video games, comics, all that stuff. You could quote entire scenes, name songs after only hearing the first note, recall exactly what happened when. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been wandering in these woods. Maybe years — it certainly feels that way. However long it has been, it has made you forget many things: your parent’s faces, your friends, your home, your favorite songs. 

This forest has taken everything from you. 

And every time a melody with no words appears at the forefront of your mind, you are unmistakably aware that it is like that because you have forgotten it. 

>><<

The woods have gone from thick to more thick to less thick to swamp. You had thought that a change of scenery would lift your spirits, but you were wrong: the swamp fucking sucks. 

It’s ugly as shit and it _smells_. You’re not sure whats in these waters, but it isn’t good. It’s probably corpses. You try not to think about that as you wade through.

The only good thing about this change is that it means you’re getting somewhere. Wherever that somewhere is, it’s better than the woods.

>><<

The sky is green. 

It’s not the strangest thing you’ve seen on these trails, but you’re pretty sure the night sky is supposed to be black. You may not have seen it for a couple of years, but there’s no way you could have gotten it _this wrong._ Something is up. 

You wade through the swamp until you can get a better view of the stars. There is a large splash of green that illuminates the plants and the rocks with a sickly glow. It starts small, coming from behind a mountain and traveling to rest beside the moon. It swirls and pulses, like a whirlpool, and shoots green across the sky like ripples on pond water. You’re too far to be able to tell much else, but there is one thing that you know for certain: that ain’t normal. 

It must have just happened, too, because you sure as hell didn’t see it before. Last night, it was only stars and the moon; none of this alien light bullshit. You stand and stare at the night sky, mesmerized by the glow, as the swamp water soaks your cloak. Where did this come from? Is it an explosion? Aliens? A thousand thoughts being to run through your mind, drowning out the scenery until all that is left is green. 

Is it people?

Your mind stutters to a halt. People? You don’t know how to feel about that. If you’re right, then you have a light leading you to civilization. Your eyes glisten with unshed tears; no more loneliness, no more wandering, no more silence. It’s a dream come true and if you have to hike up a fucking mountain to get it, you will.

You’re going. 

 


	4. i'm leaving this place behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> edited to include that part where the breach closes. don't proofread at 3 am

You reach the edge of the forest without issue. It seems too easy; half of you expected the forest to come to life and stop you, but nothing happens.

Your eyes are drawn to the sky where the green once was. It disappeared only a few days after you started walking, leaving you fearful that you had missed your only chance at finding civilization. You kept trekking, if only because there was nothing else you could do, and eventually managed to calm yourself down: you can still use the mountains as a point of reference and, hey, maybe the light being gone means there are more people! Or something else that’s totally illogical. Whatever. Even though your reasoning doesn’t make much sense, peace settles over you. 

Of course, all peace must end.

Just beyond the edge of the forest is a wide gravel road that you assume is for cars. It looks too wide to be a horse trail or a jogging trail, and you can see the long indents that have displaced the rocks. You’re about to step passed the threshold between the forest and the outside world when a scream shatters the silence. You duck back in and hide behind a bush.

“Screamin’ won’t save ya now.” 

A few yards from where you’re crouched there is a group of people huddled against what looks like a caravan. There are about seven of them: two elderly men, a younger man and woman, two small children, and a teenage boy. A traveling family, your mind supplies. 

A man in full armor steps into your line of sight and you pale. What the _fuck?_ His movements are loose and he’s swinging his broadsword with little care, like he’s hoping it’ll find flesh. He laughs, long and loud, when the family flinches away. “Look’t these poor refugees, huh?” He sneers. “Thought they could run from death itself.”

Yikes, this guy was cocky. A second suit of armor, this one with an arm of bright red crystal, steps into view, but he doesn’t appear to be as interested in the refugees. “Don’t play with your food,” he says, sounding almost bored.

The first suit lowers his sword and shrugs, his armor _clink_ ing against itself at the movement. “Well, whaddya think?”

The crystalled man observes the trembling group for a moment. “Send them to the Inquisition in a body bag,” he snarls and your blood runs cold. 

The young woman bursts into sobs and clings to the man beside her, burying her face in his shoulder. The first suit grasps her braided hair and pulls until they are face to face, “Aw, don’t be scared,” he says, and although you cannot see his face you know he’s grinning, “I’ll make this quick for ya.”

You shift onto the balls of your feet, watching. 

There are only two so far, but there have to be more; this vehicle was too large to be taken down by only two men. Attempting a rescue without adequate knowledge of your surroundings would only put you at a great disadvantage, but… your eyes are drawn back to the sobbing woman. You can’t just let them _die._

“P-Please,” the woman begs, “Just let us go, please.”

The first suit laughs and readies his sword.

Ice tears out his throat before he has time to think. You vault over the bushes as the crystalled man turns. Chunks of ice pierce his chest plate and melt back into the ground, allowing his body to drop with a hard _thud._ His sword clatters to the ground at the feet of the refugees.

“There’s more —“ an arrow whizzes past your head and sinks into the tree behind you. Blood drips from a small cut on your cheek. You freeze.

Three figures emerge from the woods.

“Kill them,” a suit wielding a sword says. They are flanked by an archer and a rogue with red eyes. 

The rogue raises their daggers, a sadistic smirk playing across their features. They are the only one not wearing a helmet, you notice. The archer beside him pulls the drawstring of their bow and narrows their eyes. 

Your heart hammer against your ribcage. A black bird lands on the corpse of the fallen swordsman and picks at its flesh. 

You’ve never fought humans before. 

You swing to the side and the arrow splinters the tree behind you. Red-eyes is on you before you can regroup, aiming for your neck, and his blade barely glances off the ice-encased hand you raise to protect yourself. You slam your foot into his stomach and send him reeling. 

The swordsman rushes you as red-eyes stumbles back, his blade angled at your chest. The blade bites into your skin, but only just, before you fade-step away. 

Red-eyes lunges again. You dodge, magic forming around your fingers, and slam ice into his neck. He hits the ground hard.

You turn as the archer fires. Time slows as you watch the arrow pierce your shoulder, ripping through your flesh, and sends you stumbling. The swordsman uses the distraction to his advantage. The hilt of his blade strikes your face. Stars dance behind your eyelids and you hit the ground.

“Do you see,” someone yells from above, “Do you see what happens when you fight the will of the Elder One?”

You kick your leg out and, by some miracle, catch the screamer in the shin hard enough to knock his leg out from underneath him. You wrench your eyes open just as he falls to his knees. Both your legs catch him in the chest, sending him sprawled onto his back. You roll over, shoulder and arms screaming, and scramble to your feet. The swordsman reaches blindly for his blade. You pluck a fallen dagger and plunge it into his chest. Another arrow sings passed you. The dagger leaves his chest with a sick _squelch_ and in one swift motion buries itself between the archer’s eyes. He collapses. The swordsman breathes his last.

You stand frozen, arm held out in front of you, your breath coming out in short, rasping gasps, and its the only thing you can hear besides your own heartbeat. 

“S-Ser,” someone is speaking to you, though their voice sounds like they’re behind a door. “That was the last of them, you killed them all.”

You lower your arm, eyes staring unblinkingly at the scene before you. For a moment, all is quiet. You sweep your gaze over the corpses, feeling… strange. Like something has hallowed out your stomach. “Shit,” you whisper, “ _Shit.”_

“Ser, your wounds —“

Another refugee approaches you, but you don’t notice them. Your eyes are locked onto the sash hanging from one of the corpses’ hips. “Is that,” you stop, wetting your lips; no. I couldn’t be. That’s not _possible._ You turn to look at the refugees, hoping they might prove some answers. “Who… who were these guys?”

They seem hesitant, treating you as if you were a frightened horse. “Red Templars, ser,” the elderly man says, “They were Templars corrupted by Red Lyrium.”

“Shit,” you say again, looking back at the corpses. “Red Templars… Shit, _fuck._ ” Red Templars? These guys are — no. No fucking way! You could take the demons and the magic and the weird sky shit, but _Red Templars?_ They aren’t real! They can’t be real! You look back at the refugees, searching their faces. “W-Where are we,” you ask, voice trembling. 

The adults share a look. One of the older men speaks up again. “This is Ferelden.” 

You choke. “F-Ferelden?” You think you might faint then and there, but you don’t. Everything seems to freeze around you as the puzzle pieces fall into place: the despair demon that had given you the scars on your face; the giant you saw ripping up the forest; your magic; _the breach_. Everything makes so much sense all of a sudden. You’ve been in Thedas this whole time — in Dragon Age. And you have absolutely no idea how you got here. 

The old man brings you back to the present with a hand on your arm. “Ser,” he says, “Your wounds. Let us heal them — to thank you for saving us.”

Now that you know where you are, it seems really fucking obvious. 

Your shoulder throbs. “Of course,” you mumble, allowing them to lead you to their caravan. You sit on an overturned box while they work the arrow out of you.

“You came just in time,” the braided woman is saying to you, her face still red from her crying, “we would’ve been goners if you hadn’t showed up.”

“Where’d ya learn to fight like that,” the teenaged boy asks, his eyes alight with wonder, “I’ve never seen no one take down Red Templars that fast!” He looks barely eleven, all gangly limbs and big green eyes. You can’t imagine how he must feel being in a war zone.

You’re still a little dazed. “The woods,” you say after a moment. 

“That is _sooo_ cool!”

You smile weakly. “Thanks.”

“Where’re you headin’, ser,” the boy’s father — you assume — asks. 

“I’m not too —“ the arrow comes out of your shoulder and curse, loudly, “ — sure.” The elderly man pats your good shoulder like he’s trying to comfort you before he rubs some tingling past on. 

“You should come with us,” the boy says, “we’re goin’ to Skyhold!”

“Skyhold,” you repeat.

“Where the Inquisition is stationed,” the other old man says. 

You bite back the _I know._ You know what Skyhold is. You know who the Red Templars are, you know who the Elder One is, you know who Solas is, you know what’s going to happen, you know you know you know. Everything that is going to happen between now and Corypheus’ demise, _you know._ It’s a strange feeling. Part of you doesn’t want to go, but… where else _can_ you go? Ferelden is being ravaged by the Mage-Templar war and an evil Darkspawn magister, Orlais sucks (fuck you, Orlais), and you know absolutely nothing about anything that doesn’t involve fighting or healing, both of which would come in handy for the Inquisition. You look at the teenage boy and smile. “Sure, I’ll go to Skyhold.” 

He beams at you. “You’ll have to tell all about bein’ in the woods,” he says, practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Don’t bother them, Tanner,” his mother says, swatting his shoulder. 

“But ma—“

“No buts. Go help your father get the caravan back up.”

Tanner sighs and stands, casting his mother a withering look as he follows behind his father. 

“I hope he wasn’t bothering you,” she says, “He can be… excitable.” 

“I noticed.”

She laughs softly. She’s a pretty lady, all fair skin and red hair. She looks a lot like the Ferelden standard; tall, hardy, covered in fur, ready for whatever the world has to throw at her. “Thank you,” she says, “for saving us.”

“It’s no problem.”

“Not many would risk their lives for someone else,” the elderly man says once he’s finished with your shoulder. “Not these days.”

>><<

The ride to Skyhold is short; after the few hours it takes to get the caravan fixed, you move at lightning speed. Tanner’s family wants to avoid a repeat of the ambush, you can tell and you can’t blame them, but you do feel bad for the horses. The caravan stops all of four times during your four day ride to let the horses rest and eat, and even then it’s barely any time at all. 

Tanner, his parents, and his two little sisters ride with you in the back, sharing stories and tales of Ferelden. You’re thankful for their company; they keep you from drowning in your thoughts, your memories. Tanner tells you countless stories about his father and his adventures as a guard. Most of them are outright fiction, but you enjoy them anyways. They share what little food they have with you and help with your wounds. Tanner’s mother even cuts your hair. 

The caravan grinds to a halt outside the entrance of the refugee camp. You slide out before the rest, turning to look at Skyhold looming in the sky. “We’re safe now,” you hear Tanner’s father say. 

“Isn’t that so cool,” Tanner asks from beside you, grinning at the fortress, “The Inquisitor lives up there! Isn’t that cool!” 

“Very cool,” you agree.

Tanner’s mother places her hand on your shoulder and you turn. “You’re welcome to stay with us,” she says, “You saved our lives and there’s no way for us to thank you properly —“

You hold up a hand and she stops. “You thanked me enough by bringing me here,” you say, “Besides, I’m going up to Skyhold.”

You can tell by the furrow of her brow that she doesn’t like this idea. It’s funny how you’ve been adopted into this family that you’ve only known for a few days. You smile at her before heading up the stairs to Skyhold. 


	5. i had a vision tonight that the world was ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one day i won't update in the middle of the night. one day...

 You don’t recall being passed by many on your journey up the endless steps of Skyhold but, apparently, you had; a large collection of merchant caravans, diplomats and their servants, and refugees are milling through the gates ahead. Voices cut through the din to direct the crowd.

Even with only a small view of the entrance, you can tell that Skyhold is still in disrepair; there are carts with piles of cut stone on them, people carrying tools, the sight of pulleys and scaffolding overhead. 

You push through the refugees and finally, _finally,_ step across the threshold to Skyhold. The sight of it takes you back. Everything seems to be in the same place as the game, just _bigger;_ the main hall bathes the courtyard in shadow and towers high above the tops of the defending walls, its peak reaching up to touch the heavens, and dozens of tents cover a courtyard twice the size of what you’d expected. When you look through the large archway, you see that the stables are large enough to fit twenty horses and there are at least ten merchants hocking their wares against the curved wall.

This is so cool!

You can’t believe Skyhold is real and you’re standing in it. Better yet, you can’t believe that the Inquisition is real! _Dorian_ is real! All these characters, stories, villains, everything you’d fallen in love with is real — and you’re right in it. It’s almost too good to be true. You can’t help the grin that overtakes your face as you bound up the stairs to the main hall. All you had been thinking about while traveling was becoming a part of the Inquisition and now that you’re here, it’s making you giddy. The very prospect of meeting all these characters you love — you can hardly keep down the laughter that threatens to bubble out of you. 

The main hall is exactly how you remember it, save for a few extra pieces of culture-specific decorations. You ignore the crowds and guards and head straight into Josephine’s office, anxiety be damned!

It’s when Josephine turns to look at you that you realize you have absolutely no fucking plan. 

“Can I help you,” she asks, her voice lilting with that Antivan accent.

You step closer to her desk, incredibly aware of every time your hands brush against your stolen clothes. For a moment, all you do is stare at each other, your mind running a million miles an hour — think think _think, you idiot!_ Say something!

“I, uh. I have some information —“ okay, playing the whole _I know what’s gonna happen!_ card is _not_ something you wanted to do, but Josephine is staring at you expectantly and your mind is fried and this is the only thing you can think of that’ll get you into the Inquisition for sure “— on Corypheus that I think the Inquisition would be interested in.”

“Really?” Josephine straightens in her chair, “The Inquisitor isn’t due back for another week or so, our Spymaster and Commander are available to hear your information. If it’s true, you can meet with the Inquisitor when he returns —“

“That won’t work,” you interrupt, “this is something that… that the Inquisitor needs to hear himself. It wouldn’t be safe for others to hear it and spread it around.”

Nice save.

“I’m sure it cannot be _that_ dangerous —“

“It is.” 

Josephine stares at you, her hands clasped on top of her desk. She’s either thinking of throwing you out or whether this information is worth the risk. The fireplace crackles behind you, the sound amplified by your anxiety and the heavy silence in the room. You swallow hard and wring your hands.

“Well, Ser — uh, I do not believe I caught your name?”

“Tabris,” you blurt.

Josephine stands. “Well, Ser Tabris, I will discuss your petition with the other advisors and the Inquisitor once he returns. If there is anything else?”

You shake your head.

“Then if you will excuse me.” She extends her hand toward the door you came in, “I have appointments I must attend to.”

You practically sprint out of her office. 

>><<

The messenger comes for you in the dead of night. 

You had commandeered a dirty little room in the corner of Skyhold after Josephine had all but thrown you out of her office, and the certainty with which he calls for you leads you to believe Leliana had spies following your every move. Not that you had moved much.

The messenger leads you up the stairs, as calm and silent as the grave. You’re beginning to wonder if they sent him to kill you. If so, could he make it quick? This had been the one night you had managed to fall asleep — couldn’t they wait until morning? Who even planned at this time of night? The messenger stops at the doors to Josephine’s office, “They are waiting in the war room, ser,” he says. 

“Thanks.” The ambassador’s office looks strange with her sitting behind the desk and for a moment you’re tempted to snoop, but the messenger clears his throat when you hesitate, so you hightail it the fuck out of there. 

Goosebumps prickle your fresh when you step into the hallway to the war room, cold air seeping from the stone and through the large opening in the wall. Will they ever get that fixed? You turn your attention to the two soldiers guarding the doors. They nod to you, seemingly aware of your requested attendance, and push the doors open when you near them. You step passed the threshold and ignore how the _thud_ of the doors closing sends your heart into panic mode.

You had been practicing this speech in your head for the last two weeks, but you were still terrified. What if they don’t buy it? Joining the inner circle is all you want to do. All you _can_ do. All that's keep you from doing something really stupid. It feels like you’ve been standing there for ten minutes in absolute silence before someone breaks it.

“Ser Tabris,” they say, and you look at the war table. 

There is always a disconnect between real life and animation. No one ever looks quite as you expect; something is always off, always a little bit wrong. It isn’t surprising — not every company as access to the most realistic graphics and basing a character off a model can only get you so far. That being said, they look... recognizable. Exactly how you would have expected them to. 

And, man, do you suddenly feel self-conscious about the dirt coating your skin. 

“So,” the Inquisitor begins, pulling you from your thoughts, “you are the one with the interesting information.” The first thing you notice about him is the vallaslin marking his dark skin — you think that it’s June’s, but you can’t be sure. It runs across the sharp angles of his face with dots just about his cheekbones, all in a bright blue that matches his eyes. 

“Yeah,” you say. 

He leans back against the war table, arms folded. “Our ambassador told me you consider your information dangerous.” 

“Something like that,” you reply, “I’m sure you’ll understand when I tell you.”

He shoves off the edge and steps in front of you, smiling like he doubts you’ll have anything worth his time. “Go ahead then.”

You meet his gaze, well aware that he is simply _humoring_ you, before you step around him to the war table. “You chose the rebel mages, right?” You see Cullen place his hand on his sword. 

You feel the Inquisitor’s eyes on your back. “Yes,” he says.

“Empress Celene is going to be assassinated at the Winter Palace,” you idly prod at one of the figurines on the table, “Alexius sent you forward in time at Redcliffe. Leliana said that Celene had been assassinated and Orlais had fallen, which allowed Corypheus and his army to take over Thedas. She also slit Felix’s throat and told Alexius she wanted the world back.” 

When you look up, the Inquisitor’s face has fallen. “How did you know that?”

You smile brightly, “I can see the future.”

“Ridiculous,” Cullen snorts, “that’s not possible.”

“I have heard stories of seers, but never outside of Rivain,” Leliana says, “and usually they are only mages possessed by spirits.”

“I’m not possessed,” you say. 

“Inquisitor, you cannot seriously be considering —“

The Inquisitor’s glare silences Cullen immediately. “I see no reason to doubt their credibility,” he says, “all that they’ve said is true.”

“I hate to agree, but Cyris is right,” Leliana says, “unless one of us spoke of this outside these chambers, no one else should know.”

“Is that all the information you wished to share with us,” Cullen asks, obviously annoyed. 

Oh, fuck. “W-Well, yeah,” you say, “I mean, I wanted to… offer my services as a soothsayer and a… a mage.” 

“Being able to see the future would help us against Corypheus,” Josephine says. 

“But also opens us up to possible corruption,” Cullen argues, “how do we know that they’re not really a Venatori agent?”

“I’m sure you’ve looked into my past by now —“

“I find it hard to imagine any elf working voluntarily with the ‘Vints,” Cyris says flatly, and you can practically hear him rolling his eyes, “and I highly doubt the Venatori would place all their trust on what would have to be a slave.” 

Huh? Elf? You reach up and finger the tip of your pointed ear. Fucking hell. 

“This could easily be a ploy by Corypheus to destroy us from the inside,” Cullen snaps. 

Cyris slams his hands down on the war table and you nearly jump out of your skin. “This is _not_ up for discussion anymore, Commander,” he snarls, “your logic is faulty but your prejudice towards mages is making you fail to see it. They are not working for Corypheus, but they _will_ be working for the Inquisition.” 

Cullen averts his gaze, his eyes hard and his mouth drawn in a tight line. You feel the air grow tense, all the advisors staring at something else, while Cyris kept his eyes on Cullen. Looks like they don’t like each other. 

“Well,” Josephine clears her throat, “I suppose that settles that.” 

Cyris glances at her, “Lady Montilyet, please set Tabris up with a room. We can’t have them sleeping in the ruined part of the castle for the rest of their time here.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

“And, uh, Tabris.” Cyris turns to you, “You said you are a… mage as well?”

You nod. “Yes. I was actually hoping to… help you on your adventures. I’m a — a Spirit Healer. You don’t have one of those, do you?”

He shakes his head, “No, and we’d be glad to finally have one. I’m growing tired of cutting missions short because someone breaks their leg.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” you say, “how very inconsiderate of them.”

His face splits into a grin. “Please, call me Cyris.” 


	6. all the birds have been singing at night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> did you know that a young goat is called a kid? the more you know!

Josephine finds you a room above the gardens. 

Or, more accurately, she orders a servant to; the ambassador had cited an “important meeting” she needed to attend before pawning you off to the first person she saw. The optimistic part of you says it’s because you smell like shit — because, really, you _do_ — but the less optimistic part is saying that they don’t trust you. It’s understandable, but it still stings. 

You hope bathing will get your mind off it. 

The tub is brass and claw-foot and hidden from the rest of your room by a large changing screen. You run your fingers along the rim, enamored. How modern! Running water hadn’t been something you had anticipated, but Skyhold seemed set to continually surprise you. 

You pull the lever on the wall and the tub fills with water. It’s cold, and that worries you — are you supposed to heat it yourself? Or did you miss a step? — but then the strange letters carved into the metal begin to glow and the water heats to a comfortable temperature.

Damn. These Thedosians sure are fancy. 

You groan as you ease into the bath. How has long has it been since you washed? The water is blissfully warm and soothes the aches in your muscles, relaxing tensions you hadn’t even known you had. You take the soap from the little table next to the tub and scrub the dirt off your skin and hair, reveling in the feeling of _finally_ being clean.

The flickering candlelight casts shadows on the changing screen, showing silhouettes of your room’s furniture. Walking in, you hadn’t paid much attention to the bedroom — it’s terrible bland, after all; there is a queen sized bed with an end table, a wooden chest, a desk, and an empty bookshelf, all with Inquisition insignia carved into them. The only object that could be considered somewhat interesting (besides the tub) is the obviously Dalish inspired changing screen. It depicts what looks like a Dalish woman surrounded by a pack of wolves. The drawings are nice, but the colors are dull. You don’t like it. 

Despite it being on such short notice, Josephine had managed to find clothes for you. There’s only a couple of shirts, two pairs of pants, and one pair of boots, but they look like they fit and they’re clean and you’re ecstatic. Anything is better than the bits and pieces of armor you’d scavenged over the years — speaking of, you really ought to get some real armor before going out into the field. 

If you ever get to. 

The thought sucks the happiness out of you. You slip further into the tub and run your fingers through your wet hair. There’s no doubt in your mind that they don’t trust you. Cyris was welcoming enough, but you don’t know him — he could just be a good actor. The only thing that you currently have going for you is that you can — or they _think_ you can — see the future; without that, you’re as good as a servant. He might not _ever_ take you into the field, now that you think about it. He might just keep you here where you’ll be nice and safe and never have the chance to betray him. 

You get out of the tub and try not to let your thoughts keep you up all night. 

(They do.)

By the time morning rolls around, you feel even worse than before. You want the Inquisition to trust you, but you can’t think of anything that’ll make it happen. All your ideas amount to making friends — that’s _it._ A foolproof plan! Good thing Corypheus hasn’t thought of this, otherwise, the Inquisition would be doomed!

Yeah. 

The situation is a real catch-22: if you try to make friends with the inner circle, it could be argued that you’re only doing it to get more information; on the other hand, if you _don’t_ make friends, they’ll say your anti-social nature proves you’re really a spy. No matter what you do, the advisors will twist it to make it fit their own narrative. 

You dress, fix your hair, and try to make it look like you haven’t been up all night. The sun outside has yet to rise above the walls of the hold, leading you to believe that it is a lot earlier than your internal clock had suggested. You hop over the half wall, slide down the roof, and drop into the gardens below.

The gardens are empty save for a handful of Chantry sisters. Soft, melodious chanting echoes from inside the garden Chantry and from the mouths of the wandering sisters. It surprises you that a Dalish would let them turn the gardens into a Chantry. You don’t have a problem with Andrastianism — Andrastism, Andrastianity? Whatever. The point is, the Chantry has been pretty shitty to anyone that isn’t human — especially the Dalish — and you’re a little surprised that Cyris would allow them to be such a large presence in Skyhold. You’re not going to say anything, but if someone says “knife-ear” around you, you _will_ kick ass. 

You sit on one of the benches by the gazebo and stretch your legs. Bothering one of the inner circle sounds a lot more exciting than watching people walk in circles, but you doubt anyone is up. Or, if they are, they’re probably training or exercising or doing whatever it is people without electricity do, and you don’t want to interrupt anyone. So you sit. 

“Pardon me.” A young woman dressed in Chantry clothing obscures your view, her hands clasped in front of her and her smile disgustingly cheery for so early. She looks around your age, give or take a year, and has the air of someone who came to the Chantry out of family duty rather than faith or poverty. You can’t tell much else because of the hat. 

“Yeah,” you ask, frowning. 

“Hello, I haven’t seen you before and I wanted to introduce myself.” She extends her hand to you. They do handshakes in Thedas?

“Right,” you take her hand hesitantly, “I’m Tabris.”

“My name is Mila,” she says, “may I sit with you?” 

“Go ahead.”

She plops down next to you and sighs. There is a pregnant pause before she speaks again, one filled with soft Chanting and leaves crunching underfoot. “You don’t seem the religious sort. What are you doing in the gardens this early?”

“No, not… this religion,” you mumble, shifting a little away from her, “I’m waiting.” 

“Waiting?” 

“Yes, for it to be later.” 

Mila laughs, “Oh, that was a foolish question. Allow me to ask a better one: what do you do here?”

You open your mouth to respond but immediately close it. What _do_ you do here? Officially? You hadn’t discussed keeping the soothsaying a secret, but you think it would be a good idea. “I, uh, I work for the Inquisitor,” you say at length. 

Her eyes light up and she turns fully to you, barely able to contain her excitement. You can feel it radiating off her in waves and if she were a mage, you are certain she’d be making flowers grow around her. Should you have said something different? “You know the Inquisitor,” she exclaims, “Incredible! I haven’t met him, but I imagine he is something to behold.”

You stare at her, “Uh, yeah, he… sure is something.” 

“I cannot imagine what it must be like to be in the presence of the Herald of Andraste,” she turns to look out into the gardens, still beaming, “how glorious! And I’m sure you must be just as incredible to serve him. Oh!” She turns back to you and grabs your hands, pulling you closer to her, “You must introduce me if you have the chance! I would be in your debt for the rest of my life!”

You’re so shocked that you just stare at her. What the hell? Are all Chantry people this fanatical? You hear someone call Mila’s name and her face falls. She drops your hands. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” she says, suddenly composed, “please consider my request.” She stands, brushes some invisible dust off her dress, and leaves. 

You sit back against the bench. Maybe you should lie next time. 

 

>><<

Mila doesn’t come back. You’re thankful; there’s only so long you can be around someone so cheerful before you kill them — especially during the morning and _especially_ when they assume you’re a servant. You head out into the main hall without any more trouble, then head out the double doors of the keep. You want to visit Dorian, but you’re terrified of accidentally letting your knowledge of him slip and creeping him out. There’s no way you would ever be able to come back from that. You cross off visiting Solas, too. 

Cole seems like the best option. He’s a spirit and he can read your mind, so it’ll be a lot less awkward than anyone else. The only problem is, he isn’t in the tavern. You leave the noisy building and jump onto the retaining wall overlooking the lower courtyard, peering down at the crowds of people in the hopes you might catch a large hat moving around. 

A twig snaps behind you, then another, until you feel the heat of someone’s eyes on your back. You freeze. A demon, shit —

“Lookin’ for someone?”

Oh. You come back to crowds below you, hard stone under your feet, and the walls of Skyhold looming above you. Your mind returns to the hold, but your heart keeps hammering against your ribcage. “Yes,” you reply, your voice even. 

“Figured.”

You turn to the speaker, brows furrowed, “Why ask?” 

Sera smirks up at you, her arms folded and her left foot set on the edge of the retaining wall. “Seemed interestin’. ‘Sides, the high and mighty mentioned somethin’ ‘bout a new person. Figured I’d check it out, yeah?”

He told them about you already? You can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. “Cyris mentioned me?”

“Ooo, _Cyris._ First name basis already? Never met none who didn’t call him Inquisitor.” 

“Thought it’d be weird not to hear your name ever.”

Sera shrugs. “Prob’ly. Doesn’t seem to mind much, though,” she says, “Think he likes feelin’ all special.” 

You blink down at Sera as she grins up at you, at a loss for what to say now. “Is there… something you wanted?” 

Sera rolls her eyes and pushes off the retaining wall. “No. Unless —“ her grin turns predatory “— you want my help.”

Oh, boy. That threw up some red flags. You know what Sera is like, but this whole situation is just so surreal that you can’t even begin to question what’s happening. “Help with what?” 

“The big three don’t like you very much,” Sera begins, “Read it on their serious faces. Figured you might need help changin’ their minds.”

That was generous. You stared down at her, but it didn’t seem like she was pulling your leg. “What’s in it for you?”

“Inquisitor told us you’re a mage. The others — ‘sides Dorian, _sometimes_  — are right arseholes. If I get you an in with the Inky and his henchman, he’ll bring you along instead of that lot.”

Huh. “Do you have anything in mind?” 

Sera spreads her hands. “Pranks.”

"I love pranks," you exclaim immediately. 

Sera’s smirk widens as you jump off the wall. “Thought tha’d be more of a struggle,” she says, “Every elfy type I’ve met's a stick in the mud.”

“Elfy —“ Oh, yeah. You frown. The initial excitement wears off a bit, and you start to wonder. “How the fuck are pranks going to make them trust me?”

“Makes ‘em think you’re human. Or, well, _normal._ Spies don’t do harmless pranks. If everyone lives, you’re not a spy.” Sera shrugs like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

You lean on the edge of the retaining wall. “You’re putting a lot of faith in me.”

“I know spy types,” she says, “And if Leliana hasn’t found anythin’ bad about you, they won’t. Hard to keep the bad stuff buried for long.”

You stare at her like you’re still thinking it over, but inside you’re already dreaming up what pranks you’re going to pull. “Alright,” you say, faking reluctance, “Let’s do this.”

Sera’s grin splits her face. “Follow me.” 

First, she leads you to Josephine’s office. The main hall is so busy with visiting nobles and bustling servants that no one seems to notice two suspicious elves sneaking into the Ambassador’s empty room. The door shuts with a soft _click_ behind you and the din of the keep is silence. Man, these walls are well insulated. 

“How long do we have?” You rest your arm on the tops of the chairs by the fireplace. 

“Heard she’ll be out for a bit,” Sera walks behind the desk and shifts a few trinkets around, “Apparently she’s showin’ some noble pricks around.” 

You laugh quietly. “Right, so we have time.”

Sera plops down and puts her feet up on the desk, looking around the room with a frown. “Got anythin’?”

No. The first thing that pops into your mind is the water bucket, but you don’t want to be a copycat — even if it technically hasn’t been thought up yet. You move to the bookshelves, absentmindedly running your fingers along the spines when something catches your eye. On a dark green book, there is a small emblem of a golden horse. That gives you an idea. 

“This room is pretty big,” you say, looking over your shoulder at Sera, “could probably fit a horse up here.”

“Horse’d be too big,” Sera takes her feet off the desk and leans forward, resting her elbows on the tabletop. You think she’s blown the idea off until she speaks again. “A goat, though…” 

You snort. “We have goats?”

“Those prissy nobles would have a fit if that’s what greeted ‘em. Josephine’d be right embarrassed, too,” she stands and leaps over the desk, already to the door by the time you turn around. “C’mon!” 

The goats are on the other side of the stables, away from the horses and anyone that might be with the horses, allowing you to do pretty much whatever you want with them. It’s surprising, especially with all the starving refugees around — you’d think missing goats would be commonplace in a camp like this. Maybe this great goat debacle of 9:41 Dragon will teach them to put guards here. Geez, that is strange to say. 

Sera is already perusing the fenced goats by the time you get there, reaching down and poking at each one. When one yells at her, she smiles. “Look’t this one,” she says, pointing to a smaller brown one. It yells at her again. 

“Seems feisty.”

Sera looks up at you with a grin. “It is. Little bastard’s broken out loads of times. Heard the soldiers yappin’ about it.” She motions for you to help.

You wrangle the goat without much trouble. The little thing seems to relish any chance of getting out of the pen, and it snuggles into you when you pick it up. Awww! You carry it up the stairs to the kitchen, through the vault area, and up to Josephine’s office, patting it the whole way.

Sera clears anything the goat might hurt itself on or break irreparably off the desk and out of reach. She doesn't move any of the papers -- they don't look particularly important, anyways. You place the goat onto the desk and it immediately begins to chew on the wooden lip. The two of you watch, grinning. 

“Good job, that,” She says. 

“How’d we manage to pull this off?” 

“No friggin’ clue.” 

You stay with the goat for a few minutes longer just to make sure it won't hurt itself falling off the desk or anything like that. The two of you leave through the main hall, acting like you've done nothing wrong, and head to the battlements.

You lean against a stone wall a few yards from Cullen's tower. "She'll be pissed," you say. 

Sera shrugs, “But it'll be funny.” 

You guess. 

A few minutes later, Cullen leaves his tower and disappears through the outer rotunda door. "C'mon," Sera says, and you follow, catching knowing grins from the battlement guards as you pass. Seems like Sera's prankster status has already spread through Skyhold. They don't even bother to stop you when you enter the Commander's unattended room. 

When the door shuts behind you, you move to the big desk. "I know exactly what we should do." 

“Don’t keep us waitin’.”

You turn to face her, hands spread in front of you. “We move all his furniture two inches to the left.”

Sera shakes her head, “Nah, don’t wanna break anythin’.”

“Trust me, this desk is sturdy,” you knock on the desk for good measure. 

She looks like she wants to question that statement but ultimately lets it go. She walks over and taps the desk with her knuckles. “Piss ‘im off royally,” she muses, “Keep knockin’ things off that shouldn’t be there.”

“As long as we’re super careful, it’ll be fine,” you assure her. 

She stares at the desk, thinking. “Fine,” she says after a time, “Let’s do it.” 

Moving the pieces of furniture is slow work. You have to make sure you don’t break anything or make any noise or knock anything off and, to make things worse, get everything done before Commander gets back — which could be any minute. The bookshelves you leave, but everything else gets carried two inches to the left. You even shift his rug for good measure. 

“Can’t even tell it was moved,” you remark. 

“He’s so anal, he’ll prob’ly sense somethin’s wrong,” Sera says, grinning. 

You take a step back and stare at the furniture, suddenly somber. “I don’t know, Sera,” you say, “I still don’t get how this’ll make them trust me.”

Sera lets out an exasperated sigh. “Trust me,” she says, “This is the best way. What else would you do? Sit alone in your little room all day? Tha’s a lot more suspicious.” 

You run your hand through your hair and frown, “I… guess.” 

She nudges you in the ribs with her elbow. “C’mon, wanna go three for three?” 

“Might as well.” 

You have to walk through the rotunda and the library to get to Leliana’s rookery, something that had escaped your mind until right this moment. Sera doesn’t seem to like the situation, either, because she’s walking as fast as she can across the room, completely ignoring Solas and his curious expression. You follow at her heels. 

The library is the next flight up, but it is empty of Dorian or anyone who might try to bother you two. It’s actually the same size as what you had seen before, which is a little surprising; you’d thought the real Skyhold library would be a lot bigger. There are, at least, tons of books. Whatever can’t fit in the many bookshelves are stacked on the ground, the tables, the chairs, any empty surface is _covered_. Three weary looking librarians are sorting through the piles and placing books in separate stacks when you pass by, but they are nowhere near finished. You feel bad for them. Maybe you’ll come up and help sometime. 

When you pass through the doorway to the rookery, you see nothing but ravens. There are no spies or guards, just _birds._ Leliana might not be there, but with those birds watching your every move, she might as well be. Normally you like birds, but these ones have beady little eyes that send shivers down your spine. You try not to look at them. 

Sera wanders around the area, searching for something that isn’t too personal or too important to mess with. It’s difficult because literally anything could be an important mission piece. You stop by her desk and glance over the papers there. “Think I might have —“

A loud _caw_ interrupts you and you snatch your hand back. Sera glares at the bird.

“Don’t wanna mess with anythin’ important,” she says and the birds _caw_ again.

Of course the birds are watch dogs. You should have guessed; no spymaster would leave their spy tower unguarded. You glare at the birds, hoping to communicate through your eyes that you aren’t here to fuck anything up, you just want to play a harmless prank. The birds don’t seem to care. 

“Here —“ the birds _caw_ , just as Sera points to the little shrine Leliana has against the wall. 

“Let’s just go,” you whisper, gesturing to the door. 

“No —“

The door to the outside of the rookery creaks open and the two of you share an alarmed look. Sera leaps over the banister of the stone staircase and disappears into the library below. You take one last glance at the desk before following suit, the birds _caw_ ing all the while.

 

>><<

Sera disappears by the time you reach the main hall. You stop by the banquet table Varric has commandeered and look around, but the hall is near empty and it's obvious that she isn't there. 

“Ser Tabris?” An older elven woman approaches you from the double doors.

Oh, maker, did they find out about the goat already? You cringe. “Yeah.”

“The Inquisitor has called for a war meeting,” she tells you, “He’s asked for you to attend.”

You manage to keep your face calm, but inside you’re switching between screaming and laughing hysterically. Really? Again? Didn’t you just have one? And of all the times… You clear your throat and shift your weight, “Are… are they already in there?”

“No," she says slowly, “The meeting starts in five minutes.” 

Thank goodness. Should you remove the goat? No — you might get caught. You should leave it there. Maybe the look on Josephine’s face when she sees it will be worth it. Maybe. The elven woman clears her throat, bringing you back to reality. “Oh, uh, thanks,” you say, “I’ll be there.” 

Josephine strolls into the hall a moment later, quill held aloft and eyes on the clipboard in her hand. She is speaking seriously to a well-dressed man by her side. They part when she reaches her door. You run up to meet her, smiling when she glances back at you.

“N-Nice morning, huh?” You offer. Fuck, why did you have to sound so suspicious? You mentally kick yourself. 

“Yes,” Josephine agrees, looking back at you with furrowed brows, “Very.”

“Do you know why the Inquisitor called a war meeting,” you ask.

“No, I —“ Josephine stops dead as her door swings open. You peek over her shoulder. The goat has created quite the mess; there are half-eaten books laying around her desk, the chair by the fire has been knocked over (not into the fire, thankfully), and paper is _everywhere._ The goat itself is still standing on her desk, staring directly at you and chewing on a piece of paper. 

“That — that — Ugh!“ Josephine exclaims, nearly cracking her quill pen in half from how hard she’s gripping it. You hear the clipboard creak. “When I get my hands on her…” 

“It’s not that bad,” you say, and then before you can stop yourself, “She was just _kid_ ding around.” 

The glare Josephine levels you could melt steel beams. You hold your hands up in surrender. “After this meeting, when I find her, I’ll…” she trails off with a heavy sigh, “I’d better get someone to clean up the goat.”

You step aside to let her out of her office. Okay, that was a little worth it. The goat knocks a cup off the desk and bleats. You lean against the door frame and grin, hoping that the rest of the gang gets there before Josephine can clean up her office. 

“Is that a goat?” Cyris sidles up beside you. 

You snicker, “Yes, I —“ a fit of laughter cuts you off “— I wish I had a camera.”

“A what?” 

“What in Andraste’s name is going on?” Cullen isn’t as tall as Cyris — who is a fucking giant — but he’s certainly taller than you. You feel him behind you, staring over your head at the goat on the desk.

Cyris chuckles and shakes his head, “We ought to be assigning guards to watch these rooms when we leave,” he says, then adds, “Sera is a menace.”

Cullen groans, running his hand through his hair, “I knew it,” he says, “She’s done something to my office as well.”

You bite back a bark of laughter. “Oh?” Cyris looks at Cullen, “What did she do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Cullen says, “I think it had something to do with my desk. It feels off…”

Cyris grins down at you, “Has anything unfortunate happened to you, Tabris?”

You shake your head, “No,” you say, voice pitched too high, before clearing your throat and trying again, “No, uh, nothing yet.” 

Josephine pushes through the three of you, four servants on her tail, and points to the goat. “Take that thing out of here,” she commands, “And, please, clean this office before any of our guests see it.” The servants mutter “yes, ma’am” before getting to work. 

The four of your stand there for a moment, watching the servants clean up after the goat. Cyris claps his hands together, drawing everyone’s attention, “Shall we head to the meeting now?” 

“Of course, Inquisitor.” 

Leliana is already in the War room when you get there, but doesn’t seem to know anything about the goat problem. Did she come in through the window or something? It doesn’t look like any of them have latches. 

“Shall we get to business, then?” Cyris hops onto the edge of the war table and sits cross-legged, staring at the four of you. “Leliana, how is the search for our missing squadron going?” 

“Not well, I’m afraid,” Leliana says, moving closer to the war table. She points to the place on the Ferelden side of the map, “They have found traces of them here, but their trail is ultimately lost when they near the mountains.” She steps back and regards Cullen and the Inquisitor, “It is becoming more and more likely that they were taken.”

“Alive, hopefully,” Cullen adds. 

“Who would kidnap soldiers,” Josephine asks, “Who even could?”

“A large, well-trained company,” Cullen replies, “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were taken by the Red Templars.”

Leliana shakes her head, “The Red Templars are far too volatile to carry off a kidnapping of this size,” she says, “They are powerful enough, yes, but they are not smart enough.”

“I agree,” Cyris says, “From what I’ve seen, most of the Red Templars are in the throes of madness. There isn’t any possible way they could do this.”

You listen to them go back and forth, wondering why the hell you’re even here. They obviously don’t need you right now; maybe you could sneak out and go take a nap…

“Perhaps if I called in a favor —“

“No, my spies are the quickest way to find our soldiers.”

“Clearly they aren’t, otherwise we’d have them by now. Perhaps a different perspective might help?”

“My spies are not one trick ponies, Commander.”

“I’m not saying they are, but it might be wise to —“

“Calling in a favor could very well put us at a disadvantage. This whole situation could make the Inquisition seem irresponsible or _worse._ ”

You stare up at the ceiling of the war room and tap your fingers on your thigh. Is this how all the war meetings go?

“I care more about our missing soldiers than our reputation, Leliana.”

“Perhaps —“

“We cannot make the Inquisition seem weak —“

Holy shit. 

“No noble would fault us for doing whatever we could to find our soldiers!”

“They can and they will if it suits them.”

“This is ridiculous —“

"Your missing soldiers are in the Fallow Mire," you say, and the room goes silent. No one speaks for a few moments and you add hastily, "Some Avvar took them, or something."  

They all stare at you.

“…or something?” Cullen repeats eventually.

“Sorry, I just say that when I’m nervous,” you say, wringing your hands. “An Avvar took them for some reason I forget — but they’re alive. That’s the most important part.”

 

The room falls silent again. Cyris is leaning awkwardly over the war table, refusing to budge from his seat, surveying the map of Ferelden with Cullen and Leliana, but Josephine is still staring at you. You meet her gaze, brow furrowed, and her eyes widen. "You!" She exclaims, pointing, "You put the goat in my office!" 

“What? How did —“ You stop, but Josephine has already caught it. Your eyes widen and you feel yourself pale, “I mean, I didn’t —“

“ _You_ put the goat in there?” Cyris asks, now looking at you, unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face.  

“It’s _not_ funny, Inquisitor," Josephine snaps, “That goat ruined important documents!” 

“It’s a little funny —“

“Inquisitor!” Josephine stares at him, enraged that he would find it amusing. He clears his throat and looks at you. 

“No more kidding around,” he says. You snort.

“Does that mean you are responsible for whatever happened in my office,” Cullen asks, glaring down at you.

You take a step back and fidget with your shirt sleeve, “Well, Sera helped.”

“What did you do?”

“We moved all your furniture two inches to the left.”

Cyris lets out a bark of laughter. “Sorry,” he says when they all glare at him. 

“Inquisitor, this is outrageous,” Cullen starts, “This could all be a ruse to keep us from finding out they were searching for important documents.”

Cyris mutters something under his breath before sliding off the war table. “Not this again, Commander,” he groans, “We’ve gone over this.”

“Sera was with me the whole time,” you tell them, “If you don’t believe me, you can ask her all about it. I mean, come on — tell me how to prove to you all that I’m not a spy.”

“You could tell us how you came here, for one,” Leliana says.

“On a caravan,” you say dryly. 

Cullen rolls his eyes, “That much is obvious.” 

“Before the caravan,” Leliana clarifies, “Before you found that family by the forest: where did you come from?”

Figures they found out who you traveled in with. You hope Tanner’s family doesn’t think you’re a bad guy now. “I was… in the woods,” you say slowly. This isn’t really something you want to dredge up, but if its the only way to get them off your back… 

“You don’t strike me as Dalish,” Cyris says, motioning to your clean face. 

“That’s because I’m not. I meant the… woods.” You don't say anything else. 

Cyris opens his mouth to say something, but Leliana cuts him off with an abrupt subject change: “What did you do to my office?”

You look at her curiously, wondering where the hell that came from. “We got caught before we could do anything, why?” 

Leliana grabs a stack of papers off the war table and tosses it across to you, the stack sliding almost over the edge. You step forward and look at a page of indecipherable writing; where is she going with this? “What does that say?” She asks.

You pick up the first page and glance through it, then at the next, and the next. It all looks like unfamiliar symbols to you. You set the paper on the table and look back up at Leliana, “Why?” 

Leliana smirks. “I had left a letter on the top of my desk. I assumed that if you were a spy, you’d try to break into my office and find whatever information you could,” she explains, sounding smug — or as smug as a master spy allows themselves to.

“What does this have to do with the stack of papers,” you ask.

“I know you saw my desk, Tabris,” she says, “It’s the most tempting place for anyone to look — spy or not. That letter was about you. And that —“ she points to the stack of papers “— is also about you. You can’t read, can you?” 

Your blood runs cold. “Couldn’t they be bluffing,” Josephine asks. 

Leliana shakes her head and points back to the stack of papers, “No matter how good a spy is, there is a moment where they will reveal themselves, usually when they are surprised. Someone with a trained eye can spot it,” she says, “The way you reacted — it’s true. You cannot read. No one would send a spy who could not read.” 

“That… does put the argument to rest,” Cyris says.

“Yes,” Cullen agrees. 

“Is that… do you really have a letter about me?” A pit forms in your stomach, sucking in all sound and feeling like a black hole. If it’s true — if there is proof that you lived here before waking up in the woods… is everything you remember a lie? Does the real world even exist? Or did you just imagine it as a way to escape your old life? Or did the woods drive you insane? The walls begin to close in around you, dimming the lights and smothering the voices of the others in the room, and you grip the edge of the war table so hard your fingers turn white. 

Through a wall of cotton, you hear her.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taneleertivan.tumblr.com


	7. who am i? an illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whew! this took forever! sorry for the long wait and then the short transition chapter, but man, bad things always seem to happen at the beginning of the year. next chapter will for sure be longer.
> 
> anyway, comments and critiques are always appreciated!

“What’s the letter say?”

Leliana picks a worn piece of parchment off her desk and looks at you. “Apparently you were quite the troublemaker in your early days,” she says, “This is an arrest report for an elf matching your description.” 

You furrow your brow, “For what?”

“Stealing from a merchant.”

“Where?”

“Nevarra.” 

“And when was this?”

“Over six years ago.” 

You feel yourself relax. Okay, so, before the forest. The letter could be right — which is horrifying — but it at least settles your mind: there is no way you hallucinated the forest. Best case scenario, there’s some other elf that looks exactly like you running around. Worst case… you made up your time on Earth? Totally unlikely, but it’ll keep you up at night regardless. 

“Expecting something else?” Leliana asks.

You shrug. “Not really, I guess.”

“Have a good day, Tabris,” Leliana says, then, “Oh, and be more careful next time.” While you stare dumbly at her, she plucks a piece of hay from your hair and holds it out to you.

You leave quickly.

That’s what you get for being original — you should have just gone with the water bucket. _Ugh._ Whatever. Nothing sleep won’t fix. It feels like you’ve been locked in that tower forever, like there’s no way it’s not dark outside, but when you step onto the battlements, you know you’re not going to sleep. A Chantry bell tolls from the garden, announcing the early afternoon hour. 

“Fuck,” you run a hand through your hair. Sleep sounds incredible right now, but you don’t want to ruin your schedule even more. You sigh.

The hold below the battlements is teeming with people. You watch as they scurry around, cleaning up fallen stones and statues, fixing the crumbling edifice, healing the injured soldiers, taking care of the animals — pretty much everything that needs to be done. So, what can _you_ do? The Inquisitor hadn’t given you any specific duties as his soothsayer, but you don't want to sit in your room all day. You have half a mind to go help the librarians before you remember you can’t read.

You jump passed Cullen’s tower and head down to the hold below, deciding that wandering is better than doing nothing. Workers and soldiers rush passed you, completely consumed with whatever duty they’re trying to fulfill, and offer a quick “sorry” or “out of the way” whenever they bump into you. You swear you hear one utter “knife-ear”, but you graciously let it slide. _Fuck_ that guy, though. 

You stop at the staircase up to the Herald’s Rest and look back at the scene before you. Holy crap, there are _so many_ people here. In the game, there were never this many people — hell, there’s at least a couple hundred milling around and that's not even counting the injured soldiers lying near the healing tents. Is it always like this?

“It is.”

The new voice startles you so much that ice gathers at your fingertips. You spin and see Cole standing there, his face bathed in the shadow of his large hat. 

“Sorry for scaring you,” he says.

“It’s fine,” you say. The ice dissolves.

“You were looking for me,” he says, “I heard you.”

“Ha, yeah,” you say, “You wanna help me find something to do?” 

“Someone is looking for _you_ ,” he says.

“Tabris!”

You turn and see Sera running toward you, a big grin on her face. Cole is gone when you turn back around, presumably heading to help some other poor soul.

“Hey,” Sera slows to a stop in front of you, “So, how’d it go?” 

“They found out,” you tell her, “Like, immediately.”

Sera frowns, “What?”

“Well, Josie put two and two together,” you say, “I had straw in my hair.”

Sera laughs. “Ah, well, didn’t get you kicked out, right? So it wasn’t that bad, yeah?” 

“I guess,” you say with a shrug, “They do sort of trust me now.” 

“Like I said, pranks fix everythin’,” she claps you on the shoulder and grins wide, “Just wait — soon, Inky will be callin’ you instead of those ones.” 

Hopefully. You follow Sera as she leads you up to the tavern, doing your best to stay in the moment instead of getting lost in your thoughts. The last thing you need is to think of something depressing or — Maker forbid — the forest. It’s been awhile since you’ve had an episode, and you don’t want to end your streak in the middle of a crowded bar. 

“Haven’t met anyone else, have you?” Sera asks, glancing over her shoulder at you. 

“No,” you reply and then, a little too sharp, “Are you the welcoming committee now?”

“Not if you’re gonna be an arse about it.” 

“Sorry.”

She leads you to her room on the second floor, which is a lot more posh than you thought it would be. The bench that runs along the windowsill is covered in pillows of all shapes, sizes, fabrics, and colors, and each one is even more plush than the last. How did she get all these? Did she steal them? Thick drapes hung over the wall of windows but were pulled back to allow the sunlight in, and the wall with the door had bookshelves of knickknacks up against it. It was a crowded, over-decorated mess of a room, but it worked.

“Thought I should give you the rundown of all our little friends,” she plops down onto the nest of pillows and grabs an arrow laying beside the makeshift bed. She points the tip at you. “ _You_ are nice — a little paranoid, but nice.” 

“Thank you?” 

“You’re like a squirrel,” she says, “All nervous and fidgety. Or maybe a rabbit. Or a nug? Any rodent like creature, I suppose.” 

You sit down on the other end of the bench and sink into the soft pillows. After a moment of rearranging — do they lead to the _void?_ — you frown at her. “I really like where this conversation is going,” you say. 

Sera grins at you, “I’m sure. But anyways — back to the chumps. They’re fine an’ all. Well, most of ‘em. I’d steer clear of Vivienne and Solas; those two are too big for their britches. The rest are fine — Blackwall’s a laugh, so’s Dorian. The demon —“

“Cole,” you supply.

She sits up and glares at you, “Ugh! Don’t say its name! It might show up.”

You raise a brow, “Doesn’t he stay on the floor above this one?” 

“Doesn't matter! Don’t say it!” 

You sigh, fold you arms, and sit back against the wall behind you. Sera frowns at you for a moment longer before she lays back down on the bench and starts fidgeting with the arrow. 

“ _Anyway,_ the demon is creepy. I wouldn’t bother with it if I were you,” she tells you, “you’ve met the big three, so you know what they’re like. The Inky’s fine, a bit of a shithead. Think that covers about everyone.”

A shithead? You raise a brow. “Really?”

“Prob’ly won’t have to deal with Viv and Sol-ass since they’re mages too, but better safe than sorry, yeah?” 

“I guess.” 

The two of you lapse into silence after that. Your eyes wander around the room, landing on the knickknacks that line the shelves of her bookcase, and you wonder what the story behind them all are. How many are stolen? Or gifts? You didn’t peg her as the kind to collect knickknacks, but there they are. Maybe when you feel like holding a conversation, you’ll ask her. 

“Oh, I’ve been wonderin’,” Sera sits up and points the arrow at you, “What do you do exactly?”

You blink at her, “What do you mean?”

“Like, what’re your skills? What’ve you got to help this mess?”

“I’m a spirit healer,” you say. She stares at you blankly. Is that not a common term around here? “Uh, I heal people. With magic.”

“I know that already,” she waves a hand, “Just not the fancy name or whatever. I mean, I have the Red Jennies, right? Iron Bull has his dumb mercenary death squad, Vivienne’s a bitch, Varric is high profile, Blackwall has the wardens. And you? Not just your magic touch, I hope.”

You look away. Can you talk about this? You don’t want to. There really isn’t anything to worry about with telling, but it might come back to bite you in the ass — particularly with Cullen, who you can already hear saying “If it was so dangerous, why are you sharing it with all of Skyhold”. So, no, lets not do that. You look at the arrow in her hands and shrug, “Information.” 

Sera questions you for an hour more, but eventually drops it. You spend the rest of the day listening to her talk and make fun. She doesn’t seem to be bothered by your piss poor conversation skills, which is a blessing, and she talks enough for the both of you. Still, it feels like the day goes on forever and ever and by the time dinner rolls around, you’re mentally and physically drained. The two of you eat then part ways, you to your room above the gardens, and her to her place in the tavern. She asks you to stay, says that the tavern _really_ gets interesting when night falls, but you can’t — the idea of being in a crowded building with so many people, its stifling. 

The door to your room slams closed behind you and you lean against it. You didn’t even do that much, but your body still feels like it ran a marathon. You change into something that resembles pajamas and fall into your bed. 


	8. you come back from a trip to the east but you don't come back from the dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some minor character death towards the end of the chapter. 
> 
> if you stop reading at "you kneel down beside the injured soldier" and pick it back up at "Fix him yet?" you'll be fine. 
> 
> also, i don't think there is a gender neutral version of "witch of the wilds" so i just left it as is. also also, can you tell i love pain and angst? because boy howdy do i!!!!!
> 
> comments and critiques are encouraged, as always

You aren’t sure you sleep that night — if you do, it was for a few hours at most, which isn’t near enough to make up for days of insomnia. Cool. You thought that a change in scenery would help settle your paranoia, but it hasn’t. Any sound that reverberates in that stone room wakes you, sends your heart racing, makes magic tingle at the tips of your fingers. You _know_ that you are surrounded by four stone walls and far, far away from that hellscape, but once you close your eyes, knowing doesn’t make one damn difference. 

You drag your hands down your face. You feel like crying, but that won’t do any good. Most it’ll do is give you a headache, and wouldn’t that be something? Sleep deprivation and a migraine, that sounds like a recipe for success! You need to clear your head. Maybe a walk will help. 

You slide out of bed and ignore the way your hands tremble as you pull on your boots. The old corpse cloak smells like the forest when you put it on — _the revenant shrieks and rushes at you, sword raised. You back up and slip on the snow, frantically calling your magic, but it won’t listen and it’s almost here you can see its blinding red eyes and_

A _thud_ shocks you back into reality. You lower your hand and stare dumbly at the shard of ice embedded in your door. Huh. “That’s not good,” you say to yourself, choking down the laughter that threatens to bubble out of you. This isn’t funny. Fuck, you need to get out of here, get your mind off this. Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_

You leave the door open behind you. Everything passes by in a blur; you barely remember scaling the roof to the top of the battlements or walking almost halfway across Skyhold. Your mind is racing, replaying things and sounds and words over and over again, and even though you are _desperately_ trying to think of something else, the forest won’t leave. 

You need to, to — touch something. Ground yourself. That’s a thing that helps, right? The cold stone of the battlement walls chill your palms, but you don’t care. You focus all your energy on the cold, allowing yourself to think of nothing else but the feeling of the stone against your skin and the pain. 

It’s hard to say how long you stand there staring at the mountains surrounding Skyhold. It feels like minutes, but it could have been hours — time is still weird to you, especially during moments like this. The world slowly comes into focus around you. The dreamy, drunk-like quality that had you stumbling and unaware of your body begins to lessen, leaving you distinctly aware how cold you are. You jerk your hands off the stone like it’s on fire and stick them in your armpits. 

Well, at least you got that out of your system. Sort of. You shiver against the cold wind that blows in from the mountains. Hadn’t you told yourself you’d go somewhere warm after the forest? 

“You’re up late.” 

You turn. Cullen stands a few feet from you, dressed in all but his armor. You’re a little surprised to see him out of it — you think back to Cole and the _I didn’t know it came off!_

“So are you,” you say. Great, your first amicable conversation and you probably (definitely) look like shit. 

“There is much to do,” he says, “Especially with the Winter Palace fast approaching.” 

“Hm.”

The two of you stand in silence, staring each other down before he speaks again. He looks away from you and rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh, wished to apologize for my attitude towards you,” he says, “It was unworthy of me.” 

You turn back to the mountains and shake your head. “It’s fine,” you say, “Corypheus and his friends are tricksy, who’s to say he wouldn’t send someone to spy on the Inquisition? And I just showed up on your doorstep, claiming I could see the future. I don’t know if I would trust me either.”

“Still, I should not have been so quick to mistrust you,” he says, “You had given me no cause and I let my emotions rule me. It will not happen again.” 

Okay, Cullen _had_ been a bit of a dick, but you kind of… get it? For more than just the reasons you already said, but you can’t exactly come out citing his time at the circle when that isn’t something you should know. Not to say that that is an excuse, exactly, but it does make it hard to hold it against him entirely. “Thank you, Cullen,” you say, “I accept your apology.” 

It’s quiet again. You expect to turn and see him already gone, but he’s still standing there, looking like he wants to say something else. You hope he does. 

“Are you… feeling alright?” 

Never mind, take it back, you’d rather he hadn’t said anything.“Yeah,” you say, brow furrowed as if you have absolutely no idea why he would be asking that, “Are you?” 

Now it’s his turn to look puzzled. “Yes.”

“I’m used to being up at night,” you say, and that's not _entirely_ a lie, “I still haven’t adjusted to living behind big walls.”

“Ah, right, it must be different from the… woods.” 

You hum in agreement and look back at the mountain range. Cullen comes to stand beside you, “There was something I was curious about if you’d permit me.” 

“That sounds ominous,” you say, “but go ahead.” 

“I understand if you do not wish to speak about this, but you mentioned the woods. It sounds as if you’ve lived there for a long period of time, yet you aren’t Dalish,” he says, “How did you come to be there?” 

That is an… interesting question. The way he phrases it makes it sound like he’s asking something else — something like _are you an apostate witch of the wilds?_ but in a vague, less accusing way. Sort of. You look at him, smirking, and _boy,_ this did manage to raise your mood a little. “Commander, are you asking me if I’m a witch of the wilds?”

“What? No, absolutely not,” he says, and it sounds like he’s actually being truthful, “Even if you were, it wouldn’t matter — the Inquisitor trusts you, regardless of where you learned your magic.” 

You frown, “Then you’re asking me if I’m, uh,” shoot, what was that name again? Chase? Charon? Chastity?

“Chasind,” Cullen supplies after a moment of silence. 

“Yes, that. Chasind.” 

“I suppose so,” he says, “Aside from the Dalish, they’re the only ones I’ve ever heard making a life in the woods.” 

“I am not Chasind.”

“Then —”

“You were right, I don’t want to talk about this,” you say abruptly, returning your gaze to the mountains. “I lived in the woods, alone. There was no reason for it; it was just bad luck.” 

You hear Cullen shift, “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Again, it’s fine.”

He accepts your obvious lie with a sigh. “Well, goodnight, Tabris,” he says, “I’m certain we’ll see each other in the war room tomorrow.” 

You turn to him, horrified, “Is there a war meeting tomorrow?”

Cullen chuckles at your expression, “Not that’s been scheduled, no, but I’m certain the Inquisitor will find a reason to call for one.” 

You bite back a groan. “Lovely,” you say, “Goodnight.” 

>><<

Cullen had been wrong in his assumption — the Inquisitor did not, and has not, called a war meeting. Even though the prospect had horrified you at the time, you are a little disappointed now; war meetings gave you something to do! Something to think about! It’s not like you had an actual job or responsibilities or anything. What were you supposed to do? Take care of yourself? Ridiculous! 

Which is why you are sitting in the healer’s tent, waiting for someone to come in and ask to be healed. 

“This is ridiculous,” you say for the hundredth time. Why won’t they let you heal all those soldiers out there? Are you not trustworthy? Apparently not, which is why the healer had relegated you to healing whatever minor injury came through the healing tents instead of something that was _actually_ important. Maybe the advisors weren’t the only ones that suspected you of being a Venatori agent. Which is stupid! You don’t even look Tevinter! _Ridiculous!_ “I might as well have just slept all day,” you tell the empty tent. 

You pout in your chair, arms folded, and glare at the tent flap as if willpower alone will bring someone to you. Isn’t there an injured recruit somewhere? Or did everyone collectively decide that today was the day they were going to be extra safe? One of the healers could have at least stayed back with you instead of leaving you alone with a couple of empty cots. 

“Healer!” A frantic voice yells, “We need a healer!” 

Two recruits rush in, one holding a bloody piece of cloth to their hand and the other steadying their injured comrade, but stop dead when their eyes land on you. Do you look that out of place? “Are you —“ 

“Yes, I’m a healer,” you say, “Come over here, let me see what you did.”

The recruits move closer. You stand and motion for the injured one to sit, which he does, before removing the cloth. You wince, “Holy —“ you stop short, realizing it _probably_ isn’t comforting for the healer to be outwardly disgusted by a wound. You clear your throat and try again, “So, how did this happen?” 

“Uh, we were sparring,” the recruit says, “With, um. Real swords.” 

“I can see that,” you say flatly, turning the recruit's hand to get a better view of the wound. He has a deep slice between his thumb and his index finger that goes to the bone.

“P-Please don’t tell anyone,” the injured recruit adds. 

You snort. “Who would I tell,” you place your hand over the wound and pump your healing magic into it, “Cullen? _Hey, some recruits I don’t know came to me because they hurt each other doing something they weren’t supposed to do,”_ you look up at the injured recruit, who has gone pale, and smile reassuringly, “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” 

The recruit breathes a sigh of relief, “Th-Thank you!” 

“No problem! But be careful next time.” The wound knits itself together under the bright light of your magic, leaving behind an angry looking scab. You spread some elf root salve onto it, gauze it, and bandage it up. “I would recommend not hitting the wound with swords, real or fake. Try not to use it, come see me immediately if it opens back up, and tell whoever is in charge of you that — doctor’s orders — _you can’t use it_.”

“B-But —“

“Just tell them that you got your wound fighting off a red templar and/or venatori single-handedly! Or whatever you prefer,” you pat the recruit’s shoulders and jerk your thumb at him to get out of your chair, “It’s not a big deal, and it’s not my problem. Cullen won’t come out of his tower to personally berate you for hurting yourself on accident, alright?”

The injured recruit nods, “Thank you, again,” he says, then rushes out, his friend hot on his tail. 

You sit back in your chair and chuckle. Somehow you get the impression that he wasn’t _actually_ that thankful. Whatever. Are the recruits really that scared of Cullen? He’s like a big teddy bear. Of course, now that you think about it, recruits are probably scared of _everyone._

Some more recruits wander in, but they only have bad cuts and sprains and aren’t that talkative, so you’re still bored out of your mind. You almost wish for something like, you don’t know, a freak archery accident. That can’t be too hard to make happen, right? The tent flap opens and one of the senior healers walks in, “You,” he says, pointing at you as if there was someone else he could be talking to.

“Yes?”

“We need your help,” he turns and leaves the tent. You rush out the tent so fast you almost trip over your own feet. 

The senior healer doesn’t look back to see if you’re following him, he keeps on walking through the field of injured soldiers until he reaches whatever it is he was talking about. You maneuver around the soldiers, trying not to step on anyone, apologizing when you do, until you, too, are standing at your destined location. 

“You said you were good, right,” the senior healer says, and you swear you catch a hint of disdain in his voice, “Heal him.” 

You look down at the injured soldier and see that he is _very_ close to death — bloody bandages cover him from near head to toe, his arm is in a splint, he’s missing a leg, and his face is burned almost beyond recognition. You look questioningly at the healer, “What do you expect me to do,” you ask.

“ _Heal him,_ ” the healer says, “You can, can’t you? You have to be good for something, knife-ear.” 

The healer closest to you two refuses to meet your gaze, but you can see their lips turned up into a smirk. Your eyes flicker back to him. “So… you’ve done everything you can, then,” you ask evenly, but his harsh tone replays in your mind. Was this why they had put you alone in the tent? 

“He’s a lost cause,” the healer snaps, “but maybe your fancy forest magic can do something for him.” You watch in shock as he stalks off to another side of the field. The other healer snickers. 

You kneel down beside the injured soldier and just stare. Now that you’re paying attention, you can see the various bloody instruments scattered near his body; a scalpel, some clamps, what looks like a piece of flint, some thread, and a needle. That must be where the fresh blood on his stomach is from, you think. They had tried to save him, apparently, but it didn’t work, so they shoved him off to the knife-ear so they could say _It’s not our fault — the knife-ear did it._

The soldier’s breathing was different. You remember back in the other world you had… seen this. When someone was nearing death, their breathing rate would change to several rapid breaths and then nothing. The “nothing” got longer and longer until they eventually stopped altogether. That was what he was doing. How long would this last? Last time you had watched someone die, it was two days. This soldier probably wouldn’t last that long — you could see blood oozing from the wound under his bandages.

“I am sorry,” you tell him, “I am so sorry.” 

You sit there for awhile, just watching. It was fascinating in a strange, awful way. You try your magic, but it doesn’t help, so you don’t bother wasting the mana. 

“It’s alright.”

You jolt at the voice and the fingers on your hand. Cole kneels beside you, looking at you from under that wide brim hat of his. “You couldn’t do anything,” he says, and boy is this familiar!

“I-I know,” you say, “I still feel bad about it, though,”

“You are… different,” he says, eventually, “Like Solas.” 

You smile despite yourself, “Is that an insult?”

“No?”

You look down at the soldier and watch his breathing. “Can you help him, Cole,” you ask quietly. 

Cole looks at the soldier and nods, “I can.” The soldier stops breathing.

“Fix him yet,” the senior healer is leering over you and acting like Cole isn’t even there.

“N-No,” you manage, “He’s… passed.” 

The senior healer clicks his tongue, “Typical,” he sneers, “This is why we can’t let you touch anything — leave, you’re done for the day.” 

You stand on shaky legs and hurry out of the field of soldiers. When will you get a day where you aren’t reminded of bad times? Granted, this wasn’t as bad as the forest, but… You shut the door to your room behind you and collapse onto your bed. You wish…

You don’t even know what you wish. For you life to be normal, maybe? For you to have never gone to help the healers? For the healers not to be racist assholes? For the soldier to live.

Someone knocks loudly on your door. 

“Come in,” you call, but it's muffled by the comforter in your mouth.

“Tabris?” Cyris pokes his head into your room, looking worried, but smiles when he sees you. “Ah, good, you’re here.”

“Do you need something, Inquisitor?” 

“Yes, actually. We’ve received word about our missing soldiers — they are in the Fallow Mire like you said, and an Avvar is holding them captive. We’re heading out tomorrow morning to get them,” he says, “You’re coming with.” 

You sit up, “Really?”

“You are the one that told us where they were,” Cyris says, “Plus, it’d be smart to take a healer with us, just in case they need something immediately.” 

Your mind goes back to the soldier. “I-I’d be happy to come.” 

“Great,” Cyris beams at you, “Meet at the stables before sunrise tomorrow.” 

“I’ll be there.” You fall back onto your bed when he shuts the door. Finally, you’re getting out of here! Thank goodness! Even though the Fallow Mire is horrifying and filled with dead things, it’ll be a nice change of pace. You settle yourself into your bed, ready to go to sleep early — real early, considering it isn’t even dinner yet — when you remember that you don’t have any armor. 

“Fuck,” you groan, roll out of bed, pull your boots on, and trudge out the door. Off to the armory you go. 


	9. and he grabbed my arm with his dead man's hand

You _really_ hate early mornings. 

Back in the forest, waking up hadn’t been a big issue, because it was more “no sleep” or “get up or die” than “sleep a little then get up to go on a long trip to a _swamp_ at four in the fucking morning”. It’s refreshing — you haven’t only been moderately inconvenienced in a long time.

Everyone is gathered just before the gates of the hold, tending to their steeds or just waiting for the others to be ready. You hope you haven't been making them wait for too long; your armor had been a lot more difficult to put on than you had originally anticipated. 

"Tabris! There you are!" Cyris waves as you approach, looking far too happy for so early in the morning. The red hart behind him flares its nostrils and hoofs at the ground.

"Nice outfit," Sera remarks from atop her horse, which is a little gray thing that can't be more than fourteen hands; it looks like someone shoved a full grown horse head onto a pony's body. 

You tug at your collar, “It was all they had on such short notice,” you protest, feeling your face heat up. If only some stupid idiot (read: you) hadn't forgotten and then waited until the last minute to get their new armor, you wouldn't be stuck in this inquisition scout get-up. Who knew making armor took time. 

“Your horse is back there,” Cyris points to a palomino standing near the back of their group, “I hope you’ve ridden before.” 

You give a wide berth as you edge around to your horse — _especially_ to Cyris’s awful creature. As soon as it sees you nearing it, it presses its ears flat against its head and bellows. You jump back with ice at your fingertips in case the damn thing rushes you. 

Cyris just laughs and pats the hart’s neck, “Sorry, he’s a talker.” 

“It’s a demon, is what it is,” Sera hisses.

“No he is not,” Cyris says with mock hurt, and then adds in a baby voice, “He’s a handsome little boy, isn’t he?” The hart nuzzles into his hand. 

“What the fuck,” you say. Sera snorts. 

“No one loves you more than me, Fen,” Cyris coos. 

“We should get going, Inquisitor,” Cassandra says. Cyris grins sheepishly at her before mounting his hart.  


“Right, got it — uh,” Cyris gestures from you to Cassandra, “Tabris, Cassandra. Cassandra, Tabris.”

“A pleasure,” Cassandra says. You wave.

“Everyone ready? Let’s head out.” 

——

The ride to the Fallow Mire is long and hard. In your ultimate wisdom, you had assumed that the journey would take, say, a day or two? Or maybe you’d be magically teleported to the campsite and have to do no riding at all. Instead, it takes nine days of snow and sleet and rain. When your horses finally reach the main Inquisition camp, it is such a relief that you have to restrain yourself from flinging yourself off to kiss the ground. 

The camp is pretty standard: tents, a requisition table, a makeshift stable (posts in the ground, a trough), and a few of what you assume are crafting tables. The Inquisition agents keep their distance, but they have stars in their eyes — except towards you. Whenever their eyes land on you, they seem more curious or bored than anything. You tug at the Inquisition symbol stuck to your chest. 

Cyris dismounts and hands the reigns of his hart to a waiting scout. “Scout Harding,” he greets, smiling despite the dismal weather. The rest of your group dismounts and hands off their reigns. 

Harding doesn’t return his enthusiasm — in fact, her expression mirrors the gloomy landscape that surrounds you. “Thank you for coming, maybe you can solve this mess,” she says, “I’m sure you already know, but our missing patrols are being held by Avvar, barbarians from the mountains.”

“What are they doing in a bog?” 

Harding’s frown deepens, “That's the thing — their leader, he wants them to fight you because you’re the Herald of Andraste.” 

Cyris smirks, “How glamorous.” 

Harding chuckles, and behind you Cassandra _tsk_ s. “Right; nothing to fear. The Avvar are holed up in the castle on the other side of the Fallow Mire. Maker willing, the Inquisition’s people are still alive.” 

“Let’s hope so,” Cyris says, and you don’t bother to reassure him. “We’ll head out, Harding. Take care.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Harding says, but then her eyes land on you and her brows furrow, “Oh, is this — ?”

“Tabris,” Cyris looks back at you, “She’s our new healer.” 

Harding nods, “Oh, okay.” 

“It - it was the only armor they had,” you say defensively. 

“Careful of the dead, Inquisitor,” Harding says in parting. Cyris gives Fen a goodbye pat before he heads out into the Mire.

You follow the pathway through the remains of Fisher’s End and to the Old Thoroughfare — or the wood bridge to zombie town, as it should be called. If not for said zombies and the plague, this would be a lovely place to live, you think; the near constant downpour makes a colorful bed of grass and wildflowers that cover the whole of the Mire, and the view of the water is comforting. It’s hard to believe that there are hundreds of corpses in there. It’s easy to smell, though. 

“Seems peaceful so far,” Sera says. 

“I would have expected some resistance by now,” Cassandra agrees, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. 

You pass a lone house and cross a shorter wooden bridge. In the distance, you can see the flickering light of the beacon against the dark sky — you wonder how it manages to stay lit with all the rain. Magic, maybe? “It’s in the water,” you tell them, but your mind is on the beacon, “They come out when you disturb the water.” 

“What awful magic could be responsible for this,” Cassandra breathes, her eyes lingering on the water of the bog. 

Sera scrunches her nose up and scowls, “Gross shite,” she mumbles.

You walk in silence until you reach the little island with the beacon on it. Cyris bounds up the small incline and slows when he nears the stone. "This looks ominous, doesn't it," he says, "Very Ferelden, though." 

“That’s what makes it ominous,” you say. 

“What’d you need a big light out in the middle of nowhere for, anyways,” Sera asks, “Not like anyone’s around.”

Cyris runs his hand along the dog carvings with unveiled amusement, "I'm more interested in how it stays lit." 

“The Avvar, Inquisitor,” Cassandra calls from the other side.

Cyris begins to reluctantly move away, but you grab his shoulder to stop him. "Wait," you say, "We need to light the veilfire."

“What? We need to find our missing soldiers, not light beacons,” Cassandra says. 

Cyris glances from Cassandra back to you. "I have to agree, Tabris," he says. 

“If we light the beacon, we can get rid of the undead,” you tell them, “It’ll call a demon here and when we kill it, the undead will stop rising from the bog.” 

“How do you know that,” Cassandra asks, but it sounds more like an accusation. 

You’re tempted to tell her that the demon told you, but your eyes are drawn to the sword hanging at her side and you decide that might not be the smartest move. Instead, you move to the torch and put your hand on it, “Just watch,” you say, and the torch lights with unnatural green fire. 

Nothing happens. 

You start to worry that you remembered this wrong — maybe the beacons were in Crestwood instead? — but then the fire flares in your face and a light shoots off behind you. 

“Shit,” Cyris hisses. 

The undead are on you — they appear out of thin air, tearing and clawing at anything that moves. Cyris barely has time to cast a spell before one of them is sinking its nails into his forearm. He swears and slams his boot into its chest. 

“You could have _waited_ ,” Sera snarls from beside you, pulling back the string of her bow. 

You dodge a corpse and a shard of ice spears it in the chest. It slumps to the ground. Another _thuds_ to the ground beside you; an arrowhead protrudes from the back of its head. You look toward the bog, but the demon isn’t there. A quick glance around tells you that it isn’t _anywhere._ What the hell? A well-placed shard of ice sends two more corpses to the ground. 

The undead begin to swarm. More and more drag themselves from the depths of the bog, stumbling toward you with makeshift weapons, and some even crawl from the very ground beneath you. The smell of death overtakes the smell of rain.

“There’s no end to them,” Cassandra yells, slicing a corpse in half. Another appears in its place seconds later. 

You back up against the beacon and look to where the spark had shot off to, but the demon isn’t there. What the _hell?_ Where is it? Sera jumps onto a pair of boxes and starts picking corpses off one by one, but it's no use — whatever power the demon has, it's strong, and the corpses are multiplying faster than you can put them down. 

Your mind races. What can you do? The demon isn’t here and the corpses will keep coming until you kill the demon — so _what do you do_? You don’t have enough magic to kill all of them. You can’t call the demon to you. You can’t undo the veilfire. Another shard of ice sends a corpse to the ground. Your heart beats fast — did you just kill the Inquisitor? 

The atmosphere changes. The veilfire flares and sputters, sending green sparks into the sky. You turn and, down by the water of the bog, a demon drags itself from a Fade ring in the ground. It shambles forward, leaking green mist from its body, flanked by even more undead. 

You look it over; tall, spindly, green, like some kind of fucked up praying mantis. Yeah, you’ve seen this before. You’ve killed this before. You aren’t positive on what type of demon it is — terror, maybe? It certainly looks frightening enough — but you do know one thing: if you stab it twice in the right side of its chest, it will die. You hadn’t mentioned this to the Inquisitor, but killing demons is _sort of_ your specialty. Doesn’t matter the type, the speed, the strength, you know how to kill ‘em and kill ‘em good. 

Before the demon can complete the hill’s incline, ice erupts from the ground and through its chest with a satisfying _squelch_. It stumbles forward and shrieks, hands grasping desperately at the ice that impales its chest before it shudders and dissolves into a green mist. The undead collapse all at once. The ice disappears. 

The only sound beside the pouring rain is your heavy breathing. You look back at the other three and catalog their injuries — mostly cuts, no one is limping, nothing that needs immediate medical attention. Cassandra flicks some guts off her blade and glares at you. 

Sera lowers her bow and scowls. “Pissers,” she spits, yanking an arrow out of one of the undead. 

“ _How_ did you know that,” Cassandra asks again, this time stepping very close to you, and you are much more inclined to answer now that her sword and shield are out. 

“I, uh,” okay, _more inclined_ , maybe, but not more answer ready. You glance at Cyris, but he offers no help. “The Fade,” you supply, smiling innocently. 

Behind you, Sera groans and mutters, “Not you, too…” 

Cassandra’s eyes narrow at you, but she makes no move to skewer you or interrogate you. She looks to Cyris, who shakes his head, and sighs. “How many more of these are there,” she asks. 

“Four,” you reply, then, “No, wait — three.”

“Three more,” she repeats, frowning. 

“Let’s go,” Cyris says, stepping over a pile of corpses, “Want to reach our soldiers before the Avvar get impatient.” He begins down the path, not bothering to check if the rest of you are following him. 

The next beacon goes much the same. 

You heal a few of the deeper cuts on Sera and Cyris before moving on. No one says much, and you aren’t sure if that’s a curse or a blessing; the heavy fall of rain and the sound of boots in mud fills the silence. You look out onto the bog and think about all the undead you killed in the forest. 

You pass through a stone archway and into a clearing surrounded by rocks on three sides. Cyris hangs back under the archway and marks the place on his map before the four of you start again. From there, the path is easy to follow. Cyris says something about how it’s “not too far away now”, but you can’t see any sign of the castle and you can’t read maps, so you aren’t sure if he’s telling the truth.

“Who’d live out here,” Sera asks as you pass another abandoned house. 

“I’m sure it was nice before the plague,” you say. Sera doesn’t look like she agrees, but she doesn’t say anything more. 

“Wait.” Cyris stops dead in his tracks, his hand held out to stop you from moving. He glances at Cassandra, who slowly and silently unsheathes her sword and grabs her shield. You look passed them to see a soft line of green hanging in the air, crackling and sending out sparks into the sky, and a large man holding a war hammer standing with his back to you. 

“He’s not going to hurt you,” you say. 

Cyris looks unconvinced, but he slowly walks towards the Avvar anyway. The Avvar shifts, prompting Cassandra to step forward, but you put a hand on her shoulder to hold her back. 

“So you’re Herald of Andraste,” the Avvar says, “My kin want you dead, lowlander, but it’s not my job. No fears from me.” He looks at the three of you pointedly. 

“I thought the Avvar wanted to fight me,” Cyris says, stopping within arm's reach of the Avvar. 

The Avvar shakes his head, “Our Chieftain’s son wants to fight you. I’m called in when the dead pile up. Rites to the gods, mending for the bleeding, a dagger for the dying. That’s what I do,” he looks back to the unopened rift, “I don’t pick up a blade for a whelp’s trophy hunt.” 

Cassandra sheaths her sword and approaches, stopping a few paces behind Cyris. You move to the other side of the Avvar and look at the unopened rift. 

“Why aren’t you with the other Avvar,” Cyris asks. 

The Avvar nods to the rift, “Trying to figure out this hole in the world,” he says, “Never seen anything like its like. They spit out angry spirits. Endless. What the sky’s trying to tell us, I don’t know.”

Cyris turns then to look at the rift. “They’re caused by the breach in the sky,” he explains, “Some kind of magic gone wrong.” 

The Avvar chuckles, like Cyris is the one who needs the lesson, “I know that, lowlander. I’m talking about the Lady of the Skies,” at his confused face, the Avvar continues, “Do you not know her? Can’t you see the warnings she writes through the bird flocks in the air?”

“You use the patterns of flocks of birds as an omen, then?”

“We don’t ‘use’ them,” the Avvar says, sounding insulted, “They’re sent. You see it, or you don’t.”

Cyris glances at Cassandra. “The other Avvar,” he begins, looking back at the Avvar, “they kidnapped an Inquisition patrol. Are they all right?”

The Avvar shifts the hammer, “A few were injured in the skirmish, but they were alive, last I saw them. Someone’s trained them well. They killed more of us than I thought they would.”

Cyris nods, “Thank you,” he says, “Goodbye.”

“Watch the water.” 

“Inquisitor, the rift,” Cassandra says, motioning to the green.

Cyris groans and turns to look at her, “But, it’s not open. Can’t we leave it?” Cassandra stares at him.

He sighs. "Today was supposed to be my demon free day, Cassandra." He raises his hand and the anchor glows bright. A boom, like the crackling of thunder, echoes through the flat landscape, and then a green line connects with the unopened rift. You watch both lights flicker and writhe, expanding until the rift blinks once, twice, three times, and cracks the sky open. 

Cyris stumbles back and you see him shake the feeling out of his hand. Tendrils of green create Fade rings in the ground, calling forth demons to torment this realm. The Avvar steps back and readies his hammer.

“Wasn’t this s’posed to be a simple rescue thing,” Sera asks, pulling an arrow from her quiver.

Demons rise from the rings and shake the remnants of the Fade off themselves. There are six: two wisps, two of those mantis ones, one despair, and one shade. The wisps move away from the group while the rest move toward you, shrieking and clicking and making all sorts of demon noises. 

The most demons you have ever fought at once was four, but six isn’t too big of a leap. You probably won’t even bother with the wisps, anyways, since those things aren’t as big of a danger as the other four. The despair demon floats toward you with ice magic in its hands. A shard through its mouth will put it down. The shade moves towards Cassandra. One in the chest should be enough. The two green demons stumble toward Cyris and the Avvar. 

You step back, take a deep breath, and channel your mana. 

Before Cassandra can move, ice shoots out of the ground and through the shade’s chest. Another shard impales the despair demon through the mouth. Both the green demons slow when ice slams into their chests. All four disappear at the same time. The wisps disappear seconds later, displaced by an arrow.

They all seem a little surprised. Cyris looks back at you, grinning, and says, "Show off." 

“I don’t like demons,” is what you tell him. 

The Fade rift pulses and more tendrils shoot out. Four despair demons rise from the rings.

“Their mouths are their weak spots,” you yell.

Sera draws back her bowstring and an arrow sails into one's open maw. It shrieks and convulses and dissolves into green mist. Three left. 

Ice magic slams into your side and you trip over a pile of wood, hitting the ground hard. The cacophony of battle surrounds you; you hear -- and feel -- as Cyris draws from the Fade and hurls a fireball at a despair demon, as Cassandra's blade slices through the air, as Sera's lets loose arrow after arrow. 

From upside down, you see the Avvar standing a few feet from you, watching the battle.  He doesn’t seem to be interested in fighting himself. 

A despair demon appears above you, hands drawn and ready to skewer you. The scars on your face tingle in memory. You roll to the side. Ice embeds itself where your head had been. You scramble to your feet, slipping on the wood, and ice grows in your hand. The demon screams and bats your magic away with ease and then its hands begin to glow with an attack of its own. 

"Shit!" You dive out of the way and the demon strikes out at you again, but the ice misses you by a mile.  

You turn just in time to see a ball of fire consume the demon from the inside out. 

“One more,” Cyris yells. 

The final despair demon floats above the opened rift, its hands glowing white with magic, but it doesn't have a chance to attack -- all at the same time, it is struck by an arrow, ice, and fire, and disappears with a final dying shriek. Cyris jumps forward and raises the anchor to the rift. It pulses, connects with his hand, and he pulls and snaps it, destroying the rift completely. 

The Avvar hefts his hammer onto his shoulder and walks away. 

Cyris leans on his staff and stares at where the rift had been, “That’s enough excitement, I think,” he says, “Let’s not get any more sidetracked.” 

“There’s two more beacons, Inquisitor,” you say.

Cyris hangs his head. “Mythal preserve me,” he mutters, “Let’s go, it’s getting dark.” 

You start back on the path. The troubles plaguing the Mire begin to become clear; you pass a bonfire with half-scorched bones — “For the plague victims,” Cyris had said — and cross bridges that are so decrepit that you fall into the bog more times than you can count. You want to say that this part of the bog has been abandoned for a long time, but the further you go, the more you see signs of life. 

Cyris stops abruptly and crouches down on the bridge. “Look,” he whispers, pointing to the three figures surrounding a spit. 

“More Avvar,” Cassandra mutters, crouching beside Cyris, her hand on the hilt of her sword. 

“Friendly?” Cyris looks back at you. 

You shake your head, “No, they’ll attack us,” you say, “We should take them by surprise.” 

Cyris nods and looks to Sera, “Can you get one from here?”

Sera nocks an arrow and points it at the nearest figure, “Absolutely,” she says, grinning, and lets the arrow fly. It sinks into the figure and they hit the ground. The other two start and grab their weapons. “The herald,” one of them yells, “Kill him!” 

An arrow whizzes past your head and into the post behind you. Sera nocks another arrow, but the Avvar reacts too fast and the arrow barely grazes their arm. You hang back and cast a barrier over Cassandra and Cyris, allowing them to descend upon the two Avvar archers. 

The Avvar shoots an arrow, but it bounces off the barrier and Cassandra puts her sword through their chest. They drop their bow and crumble when she pulls it out. Cyris sets the last Avvar on fire and they jump around frantically before he impales them with the blade of his staff. 

“Gettin’ close looks like,” Sera says, coming off the bridge. She places the Avvar’s arrows into her own quiver. 

“Let’s hope that Avvar was telling the truth about our soldiers being okay,” Cyris says. 

“They’ll be fine, Cyris,” you tell him, “Don’t worry.”

“You are very sure of yourself,” Cassandra says. You smile at her.

You continue down the path and light the fourth beacon. Cyris presses on warily, his knuckles white on his staff, glancing at every shadow and toward every sound. 

Not very far from the fourth beacon is a row of crumbling structures and smoldering fires. You maneuver over the remains of a stone archway and into what must have been a fort or town once; now it's just wreckage and piles of scorched bones. The plague must have reached every part of the Mire.

Sera groans, “Smells like shit.”

“Agreed,” Cyris says. 

You follow the path until you reach the chain-linked bridge — or fence or whatever the hell it is — and you all stop dead. Tens of undead stand on the bridge, dragging their weapons across the ground and stumbling and moaning. Cyris takes a half step back. 

“There’s a lever for the gates inside the keep,” you tell them, “All we have to do is get inside and we can lock the undead out.” 

“That’s easier said than done,” Cassandra says, “There has to be fifty corpses and we can’t outrun all of them.” 

“We can’t leave our men to die in there,” Cyris says. 

“The front gate is our only way in,” you say, “I don’t want to fight any more undead, either, but this is our only option.” 

Cassandra turns to the Inquisitor after a moment of consideration, “You will go and close the gate,” she says, “We will keep the corpses off of you; yell to us when you’re going to close the gate.” 

“Wait —“ Cyris starts, but you cut him off. 

“You have to, Cyris,” you say, “There are some Avvar in the keep; ignore them and close the gate. The lever is on the second floor right above the gate.” 

“What —“ Cassandra grabs Cyris by the shoulders and pushes him forward. 

“We will keep them off you, Inquisitor,” she says. 

“Fade step it,” you say. 

Cyris frowns back at the three of you. “Don’t you have any objections, Sera,” he asks, a glimmer of hope in his eyes, but Sera shakes her head. 

“Just go,” she says, her bow already in hand, “You’re not leavin’ us to a bunch of red templars, yeah?” 

Cyris sighs and looks back to the keep. “Fine,” he grumbles, “Don’t lag behind.” He runs forward and disappears before he reaches the pack of undead. 

You bolt after him. The undead stir when you come close; they raise their weapons and screech, their cries reverberating through the crumbling structures. You want to stop running and cover your ears, but you start running faster instead. You feel the undead grab at your clothing and your hair as you run passed.

Sera reaches the keep entrance first. She spins and raises her bow, shooting two undead in the head before they have time to react. You get there second and skid to a stop, throwing your hand out behind you and calling patches of ice to slow the horde down.

Cassandra skids to a stop in front of you and whirls, her sword and shield brandishes as the undead close in. She kicks one away and slices the head off of another. 

You turn to the horde and ice forms in the palms of your hands. One corpse goes down in front of you, a shard in its chest, and two more go down in front of Cassandra. You glance behind you into the keep and see a dead Avvar laying on the wooden ramp. Good; Cyris has gotten that far, at least. 

Cassandra bashes a corpse in the face with her shield and backs up, her sword covered in the guts of the undead. You look at the undead closing in and wish you had brought a weapon. 

A body slams into the ground in front of you and you jump back, eyes wide. The body writhes and groans, but it doesn’t have any time to right itself before the dead jump at it. You look up and pray that you don’t see an Avvar grinning down at you. 

Cyris looks over the stone wall, “Get inside!”

You don’t need to be told twice. The three of you jump through the archway and the gate comes down a second later, beheading and maiming the undead that had been trying to follow you. 

Cyris hurries down the wooden staircase and jumps down onto the ground. “Let’s go,” he yells, then runs through the newly opened gate. Cassandra heaves an annoyed sigh before she runs after him, leaving you and Sera behind. 

“Those two, I swear,” Sera says, “They’ll kill each other.” She picks a few arrows off the dead Avvar before following the other two. 

“More like Cyris will get himself killed,” you say, following her, “Then Cassandra will bring him back just to kill him again.” Sera laughs. 

By the time you reach Cassandra and Cyris, they’re embroiled in a battle between three Avvar on the flat below the castle. Sera nocks an arrow and hits one of the Avvar in the shoulder, allowing Cassandra to use the momentary distraction her advantage; she slices them across the chest and kicks them down the steep staircase. Cyris sets the other two Avvar on fire and slams one in the side of the head with his staff. They stumble back, disoriented and trying to put the fire out, and Sera shoots an arrow into their neck. They fall backward down the stairs. 

The last Avvar lunges at Cyris. Cassandra steps forward and breaks their outstretched arm with her shield then stabs them in the stomach. 

You step over the fallen Avvar and climb the stairs. “Are we alright,” you ask, “Need any magic?”

Cassandra wipes the blood off her blade, “I’m fine,” she says. 

Cyris bounds up the staircase without a response, leaving the three of you behind. “Cyris,” you call, but he doesn’t stop. Cassandra sighs and the three of you head up after him. 

As you crest the staircase, the Avvar leader comes into view. Large ram horns protrude from his headpiece and dark fur covers his leather armor. He steps forward, flanked by two arches, and raises his hammer above his head. “Herald of Andraste, face me,” he yells, “I am the hand of Korth itself!”

“Where are my soldiers,” Cyris yells back. 

The Hand of Korth just laughs.

“Is this a one-on-one thing,” you ask the room. An arrow bounces off the stone behind you and one of the Avvar archers swears. 

“That’s a no,” Sera says, aiming her bow. 

Cyris dodges Korth’s first hammer strike. He swings his staff and a fire mine erupts under him, sending the hand stumbling back. Korth screams and lunges forward, ignoring the fire burning the ends of his coat, nearly catching the Inquisitor with his hammer. Cassandra rushes forward and catches him off guard, slamming into him with her shield. A ball of fire hits Korth in the side and sends him further away. 

One of the Avvar archers hits the ground with an arrow in their chest. The other glances down at them, then back at Sera and you. They raise their bow to retaliate, but another arrow sends them to the ground. 

“You are no match,” the hand of Korth hisses, slamming his hammer down where Cyris had once been. 

Sera nocks an arrow and aims it at him, but doesn’t shoot. “This guy’s a real gem, isn't he?” 

Cassandra’s sword slices through the hand’s armor, but not deep enough to reach his skin. He swings his hammer and catches her in the side, nearly knocking her off her feet. Cyris swings his staff and hits the Hand on the side of the head, directing his attention to him. Cassandra rushes forward and plunges her sword into the hand’s chest. 

“No —“ the hand of Korth drops his hammer and falls to his knees, blood oozing out onto his armor. Cyris grabs his chin and forces him to look at him.

“Where are my soldiers,” he hisses. The hand looks weakly at the door to your left. Cyris lets his face go and steps back. “Sera,” he says.

Sera lowers her bow and runs to the door. "Got it!" She starts to pick the lock.

The hand of Korth slumps to the ground and does not stir. 

“Are you alright, Cassandra,” you ask, noticing her favoring her other side. “Do you want me to heal you?”

Cassandra shakes her head and sheathes her sword, “I am fine, Tabris, thank you,” she says, “It is only a bruise.”

You look over at Cyris, “Are you alright, Cyris?”

“I’m fine,” he says.

The lock pops and the door swings open, revealing the missing soldiers huddled together. Cyris walks up behind Sera, his eyes searching the room.  
“Herald of Andraste,” one of them yells, and the two that are standing immediately salute.

Cyris steps around Sera and into the room, “I dealt with the Avvar. Is everyone alright?”

“Yes, milord,” one says, “The injured need some rest, but we can return on our own.”

Cyris nods, “We brought a healer — does anyone need them?”

The one that had spoken looks around the room, but they all shake their heads. “I think we’ll be fine, Herald,” they say, “Our worst wounds have healed already.”

“Give us a moment and we’ll escort you back to the camp.” 

“Yes, Herald.” 

“Can’t believe the Herald came for us,” one of them whispers to the other. 

“I told you he wouldn’t leave us,” the other says, grinning. 

Cyris helps the soldiers to their feet and slings one’s arm around his shoulder. He makes sure to go slow across the slippery, debris covered floor, checking the soldier to make sure they’re fine. You follow behind the group with Sera, watching the soldiers carefully. 

“Your god looks after you, Herald,” the large Avvar from the rift stands at the head of the stairs, watching the Inquisitor. 

“Ah, hello again,” Cyris stops in front of him. The soldiers tense. 

The Avvar looks behind him toward Korth’s body, “There lies the brat,” he spits, “His father, chief of our holding, would duel me for the loss if he cared enough.” 

“The Inquisition has a purpose your chief lacks,” he says, smiling at the Avvar. 

“Is this why the Lady of the Skies lead me here,” the Avvar looks pensive as he stares at the corpse, “To help heal the wounds in her skin?” He looks back at the Inquisitor and nods, “Aye, I’ll join. Let me make peace with my kin, and I’ll find where you set your flag.”

“It will be a pleasure to have you,” Cyris says. 

“Skywatcher,” the Avvar says. 

You furrow your brow, but Cyris seems to understand the odd response. “I’ll see you at the hold, Skywatcher.” 


	10. then you came into my life with come hither in your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just in time for the one year anniversary of this fic. i can't believe i've been posting it for a year??? what the heck??? crazy
> 
> anyways enjoy.
> 
> i refuse to believe that leliana doesn't know about everything that happens in skyhold ever

_Madame Ambassador,_

_I would be honored to accept your invitation. I shall make arrangements to pay the Inquisition a visit presently, as I have been most curious to see your organization for myself._

_Sincerely,_

_Comte Renald de Mourier_

  

Walking through the refugee village was weird. The first time you had been there, it was normal, but with the Inquisitor with you, it was like… like you were a monarch returning from a century long war and the refugees were there to commemorate your triumphant return. You had half expected them to start laying flowers at your feet. 

Entering Skyhold, on the other hand, is totally normal; no one rushes to you or screams or starts crying or proposes to you — well, they had proposed to Cassandra, actually — or acts like you’re a savior in anyway whatsoever. It’s nice and you think that Cyris likes it more than down there, because the smile on his face doesn’t look forced. 

“Inquisitor,” Josephine greets from the portcullis. 

“Josephine,” Cyris says, dismounting his hart and handing the reigns to a nearby guard, who has to duck out of the way when it snaps at him. “Is it safe to assume something’s gone wrong?” 

Josephine smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, “Of course not, Inquisitor,” she says, “but it is something. Do you recall the Comte De Mourier?”

“The little rat bastard spreading lies about the Inquisition,” Cyris says mildly. 

She chuckles dryly, “Yes, that one. He is visiting tomorrow.”

You dismount your horse — Max, you think his name was — and hand the reigns to one of the guards. They incline their head to you and pat the horse’s neck, probably glad that they don’t have to deal with Cyris’s demon creature, before leading him off to the stables. You don’t think that Cyris’s conversation has anything to do with you, but you stay to eavesdrop anyways.

“Do I need to show him around?”

“No, of course not, Inquisitor,” Josephine replies, then glances around the grounds, “we should continue this in my office if you would.”  

“Right.” 

You watch the two of them leave, a little disappointed; you love gossip. But whatever, you have more important things to do now. LIKE SLEEP. Fuck, that trip had _killed_ you, and your sudden onset of insomnia hadn’t helped much either. It feels like you’ve been awake for ten days straight (which is almost true), and you’d give anything to be able to lay down in your bed and sleep for the rest of your life.

It’s at that moment you expect someone to come up and tell you there’s a war meeting or something, but no one approaches. 

Huh. 

You’re not about to wait around for someone to tell you to do something, so you hightail it up the stairs of Skyhold and to your room, cursing the amount of steps as you go. Why are there so many? Couldn’t the Elves have magicked an elevator? You’re going to give Solas a piece of your mind about that when you work up the nerve to talk to him.

No one calls out to you as you maneuver through the main hall. Even if someone had, you probably wouldn’t have heard them; all you can think about is your warm, soft, comfy bed and being able to sleep with four walls protecting you. The tent you had been in on the trip to and from the Fallow Mire hadn’t been bad, but it was a tent and it was cold and you couldn’t get used to sleeping next to someone. 

When you finally enter your room, you don’t even bother to change out of your armor. You stumble forward and fall face first into your mattress, letting out a sigh of relief as your body melts into it. The bed feels like a cloud underneath you, pulling you deep into its soft embrace, and _ahh,_ you had missed this. You never want to sleep on the hard ground again. Sleep takes you with your legs still dangling off the bed. 

——————

It’s dark when you wake. 

You roll onto your back and blink blearily at the ceiling, ignoring the uncomfortable way your armor presses into your skin. Damn. How long were you out? It was only mid-afternoon when you arrived and now it looks passed midnight. That’s, what, twelve hours? You lay in silence for a few moments before the armor becomes too much and you stand to peel it off. 

The armor clangs against the floor when you drop it, loudly enough that you worry the people next to you might hear, and the sound reverberates in the otherwise silent room. You pause, working at the leather straps, and when no one comes barging in to tell you to shut the fuck up, you figure you’re safe to drop the rest. 

You slip into a new pair of pants and a clean shirt, happy to be rid of the filth you had worn for all those days, and let the old ones pile up on the ground. Now all you need is a shower. You wonder if you should burn the old clothes — monster guts is probably hard to get out, anyways. Hm. Maybe later. 

After that, you don’t feel very tired. You exit onto your garden balcony and breath in the crisp air. Maybe a walk will do you good, tire you out so you can sleep a few more hours. You look towards the sky above the battlements and any idea of going back to sleep vanishing right then — the night sky is light, darkness mixed with swipes of yellows and pinks, and the two moons are disappearing from view. You sigh. 

Wandering sounds better than moping, so you climb up the small patch of roof to the battlements and start walking. 

It’s practically empty this time of day, ‘sides the few guards that are finishing their night watch. You nod to them as you pass, but they don’t seem interested, content to stare at the bridge or finish their route. Rude. A cool wind blows in from the mountains, making you shiver. 

It isn’t long before sound from below captures your attention and you slow, eyes seeking the source. Someone is beating the hell out of the dummies in the training yard, but you’re too far away and it’s too dark to tell who it is. You swear you recognize them, though. A guard nearly runs into you as you abruptly change course down a nearby staircase, doesn’t even stop to apologize. You descend until you’re a few steps from the ground, and you can finally see who it is. 

Cullen. 

It’s strange to see him without his cloak or armor. 

The dummies creak against the weight of the blows, but they do not bend or wobble, even when struck by a particularly nasty hit. Several satisfying _thwacks_ echo through the empty training area. You stand and watch, mesmerized. 

Swords and sword-fighting has always been interesting to you, always seemed like a graceful thing, so removed from the harshness of hand-to-hand or the indifference of long-ranged weaponry. In the heat of battle, it’s difficult to notice because you’re too preoccupied with trying not to die, but when it’s just against dummies and you aren’t the one swinging, you can see it.  

The sword arcs through the air and slices a jagged line down the dummy’s chest before he swings again, and again, and again — like he’s getting all his pent up frustration out on the damn thing. A pile of straw filling starts to gather beneath it, growing with each strike. He doesn’t stop until his sword buries itself in the wood.  

He stands there for a moment, breathing heavily. 

The sword breaks from the wood and slides easily into the sheath on his side. Cullen wipes the sweat from his forehead and turns toward the staircase you’re standing on. His gaze lands on you.

Your eyes go wide and you realize, holy shit, you’ve been _staring_ at him this whole time, and it’s pretty damn obvious from the way you’re leaning against the fucking wall like you haven’t got a care in the world. You’re thankful for the shade, because you’re certain your face is bright red, and after an awkward second of holding his gaze you turn and scramble up the staircase. 

Wow. Smooth move. 

_Idiot._

You mentally kick yourself the entire time it takes to get back down to the gardens. Ugh, if there ends up being a war meeting today, you will _die._ How can you face him when he probably thinks you were ogling him that entire time? Shit! You idiot! This is why you don’t talk to people! 

You hide underneath the overhang and almost bang your head against the wall, but a voice stops you. 

“Tabris!”

Oh, _just_ what you need. 

The Chantry sister that had implied you were Cyris’ servant all those days ago walks up to you, all smiles and gentleness. “Tabris, I’m so glad you’ve returned,” she says, “How was your trip?”

“It was fine,” you respond curtly, your forehead still pressed against the stone. The sister doesn’t seem to mind. 

“I’m glad,” she says, again. “Would you like to join me for breakfast?” 

You’d rather hide in your room for the rest of the day, but you should eat; your stomach grumbles. “I guess.” 

Her smiles widens, if that’s possible, and she takes your hand to pull you after her. “I can’t wait to hear about your adventures,” she says, “I’m sure it was exciting to see the Inquisitor in action!”

“Yeah,” you mumble, letting her drag you along. 

You don’t know where the hell she’s taking you because last time you checked, the tavern didn’t serve (good) food and there wasn’t any other food place anywhere in —

Oh. 

It turns out that there _is_ a medieval cafeteria in Skyhold, down between the kitchens and the vault. It’s a large room, big enough to hold one hundred people comfortably, and has two large feasting tables and a long counter of food. Lit torches crackle on the walls, lighting up the otherwise dark interior, and cast shadows across the decidedly Ferelden decor. 

You feel a little dumb for thinking there hadn’t been one. 

The sister — Mila, you remember — sits you down at the far end of one of the feasting tables. “Wait here,” she says and, before you can protest, disappears into the large line by the food counter. She comes back a little later with two bowls of gruel. 

“You must tell me all about your trip,” she says, sitting down in front of you. 

You stare down at your gruel, “It was… alright,” you say, prodding the food with your wooden spoon, “we saved those lost soldiers.”

“Oh my! Was it dangerous? Was anyone injured?” 

It was annoying, that’s for sure. You think back to the four beacons and almost cringe. “No. The Avvar weren’t very prepared for us.” 

She takes a bite of her gruel and nods, waiting to swallow before she speaks again. “Good,” she says, “cowards like that deserve to wander forever in the Fade.” 

You glance up at her then back at your food, feeling a little awkward. What should you say? Is she waiting for you to say something? The wooden bench groans as you shift. “Uh, h-how was your week?” 

That sets her off — it’s like she had been waiting for that very question from the very beginning. She starts talking a mile a minute, telling you — in excruciating detail — about some drama she got into with a few of the other sisters. It’s boring stuff, mostly attitudes clashing and people being petty, but she’s very passionate about it (especially about her being right).  

You let her talk, nodding and interjecting a few agreeable statements when she pauses. If you knew her a little better, you would probably be more interested, but as it stands, you don’t. 

Mila sighs and leans back in her chair. The cafeteria is quiet, most having left a long time ago. You mix the few spoonfuls of gruel still in your bowl around with your spoon. 

“It was nice speaking with you,” she says, now that her bowl is empty, “We should do this again.”

You shrug, “I don’t know how often I’ll actually be up around this time,” you tell her. 

“Breakfast or lunch, it doesn’t matter,” she says, waving a hand, “As long as we can talk.” 

You force a smile, “Sure,” you say, but you don’t really want to. She’s nice and all, but the idea of a standing social appointment with someone you don’t know makes your stomach churn. 

Mila takes your empty bowl before she leaves. You sit for a moment, trying to work up the courage to find her and change your answer, but you can’t. Maybe getting to know her will be good for you! 

You look down at your wrist, as if expecting that a watch will have magically appeared on your skin, and frown. They have golems here but they can’t invent a fucking clock. Ugh. You turn and watch a few soldiers file into the cafeteria, grinning and joking with each other, their armor shining in the torchlight, and you suddenly remember that the armorer had told you to visit once you returned. Getting new armor is at the top of your to-do list, so you jump from your seat and hurry down to the Undercroft. 

The armorer greets you when you enter. His workstation is large and spread-out, but it barely takes up even a third of the room — or cave. He motions you over to the workbench in the middle of the room and starts questioning you on the metals and the leather and the fabric that you want, offering his suggestions and listing the pros and cons of each. 

You end up picking what you think looks the best because you have absolutely no idea about anything armor related. Aesthetic is more important than safety, anyways! 

“And this, Comte De Mourier, is the Undercroft,” Josephine’s voice cuts through the din, stopping both you and the armor in your tracks. She steps down from the small staircase and smiles. The man beside her, a fancy looking man with an expression that verges on faux kindness, looks around the room and seems less than impressed. 

“This is Harritt, the Inquisition’s Blacksmith.” Harritt doesn’t look up from where he’s measuring you, instead offering a halfhearted wave. Josephine turns her gaze to you, “And this is one of our esteemed advisors, Tabris.” You don’t move.

“It is a pleasure to meet both of you,” De Mourier says after a moment. 

“Let us continue with the tour.” Josephine motions for him to leave and follows close behind. 

Huh. “De Mourier”… wasn’t that the guy that Cyris and Josephine were oh-so discreetly talking about yesterday? He looked a little suspicious, you admit. You wonder what the deal is — is he a Venatori sympathizer? Or just someone they want to get close to for the Winter Palace? All Orlesians automatically look suspicious, so it could be either one. 

Harritt moves to his work table and shoos you away, “You can go.” 

You have no where to go, though, so you sit down at the edge of the Undercroft and let your legs dangle, arms resting on the fence they’ve built to keep people from falling off, watching the waterfall pour in front of you. The spray starts to soak your pants and brings the chill with it, but you don’t mind. This cold is nothing. 

You reach out and let the stray drops soak your hand. The waterfall puzzles you — where is it coming from? Is there a body of water in the middle of the castle that you don’t know about? 

Come to think of it, it’s probably just some Elven enchantment that hasn’t worn off yet — it is pretty impressive; you could picture the Elves having it purely for decoration.

Still. _Weird._

Harritt bangs away at your armor, ignoring you for the most part. You take to freezing parts of the water as it comes down, relishing in the way it breaks apart when it strikes the mountain top, and stare out into the distance. That whole awkward eye contact with Cullen still bothers you, but you try not to dwell on it too much. Not like you can do anything, anyways. 

The sky slowly begins to darken. 

“Ser Tabris?” 

You turn, frowning, to see a guard approaching you. “What?” 

“Lady Montilyet has requested you attend a dinner for Comte De Mourier,” he tells you, “All the advisors are to be present.” 

“When is it?”

“In an hour.”

You turn back to the waterfall and sigh, “I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, Ser,” the guard says and leaves.

Great. _All_ the advisors are going to be there? You hope that you don’t get stuck sitting across from Cullen or something.

—————  


Andraste’s tits. 

“Hello, Tabris,” Cyris greets from the head of the table.

“Inquisitor,” you say, a little stiff, and sit down in your assigned seat, right next to Cullen. 

The main hall has been cleared; only a handful of guards stand watch, each at a different entrance, observing the two banquet tables of nobles, their faces a blank mask. You feel bad for them, having to stand there for hours. Hopefully something happens (like a fistfight) to liven it up.  

Surprisingly, no one else from the Inner Circle is there — and on second thought, it really shouldn’t shock you; would Josephine want to risk a potential ally by having Sera there? Or Cole? There are only three out of the nine that actually know how to handle themselves around nobility. She’s already taking a risk having you there. 

A wave of servants appears, each carrying two plates of food, and each sets one in front of a noble. They top off several wine glasses and tankards before disappearing as quickly as they came, allowing the dinner party to officially begin. 

The plate is some kind of… fish. It looks like salmon — thats like the only fish you know — but you aren’t sure, because what if Thedas doesn’t _have_ salmon? Is this their salmon equivalent? Whatever it is, it’s been prepared similarly to what you’d see back in the Real World, which is pretty damn shocking; a yellow sauce has been poured over the fish and a few sliced vegetables sit on the side of the plate, and it all looks very modern. Obviously this place has a food culture way ahead of its time. 

You hear several nobles praise the food to their seat partners. 

“So, how was your day, Leliana?” Josephine breaks the silence that had descended over your end of the table. 

“It was work, Josephine,” Leliana replies, a small smile on her face, “and yours?”

“The Comte made for nice company,” Josephine says, and beside her, the Comte smiles, “I enjoyed being out of my office.” 

“I’m sure.” 

“And what did you do today, Tabris?”

You look up from your plate, glancing across the table at the two women, before your eyes land on Cyris, who is staring at you. “I walked around,” you say, and then, because you should probably sound a little more competent for the nobles around you, “I, uh, studied… some things.” Nice. 

“Did you find anything interesting,” Leliana asks, her smile wide and smug like she knows something you don’t. 

“Yeah.” 

She looks at Cullen, “And you, Commander? How was your day?”

“Busy,” he says, “There have been reports of new Venatori cells — thankfully, our soldiers have taken care of them.” 

Cyris hums in agreement and takes a sip of his wine. 

The servants return twice more, each time bringing new plates of food. The next course is steak, the one after that is some kind of bird, and the current one is a small salad. You have no idea how many more courses there are, but you hope it stops soon, because you’re ready to burst. 

You catch Josephine a hand on Cyris and whisper something to him. He nods and his chair drags against the floor.

Cyris stands and the hall falls silent, all eyes on him. He clears his throat and raises his wine glass, “The Inquisition thanks you all for coming,” he says, “It is an honor to see so many support us and our goals. Your help will lead us to a brighter future — a future free of Corypheus and one that honors the late Divine, may she rest in peace.” He raises the wine glass higher, signifying the end of his toast, and the room erupts in applause.

“A wonderful speech, Inquisitor,” the noble sitting beside you, an Orlesian woman, judging by her accent, says. 

“Thank you, Lady Morreau,” Cyris says, sitting back in his large chair. 

“Truly, it was a pleasure to be here,” De Mourier says, “You are a most gracious host.” 

“I’m pleased you feel that way, Comte,” Cyris replies, smiling. 

“It is so comforting to see what the Inquisition truly is,” De Mourier continues, “all this support should certainly put to rest those foolish rumors.” 

Rumors? What rumors? 

“I pray that it does, Comte,” Cyris says, and says nothing else, and you swear De Mourier grows a shade paler than normal. 

The servants return to take the empty plates away and set down plates of celery — what the fuck? You stare at it, frowning, “I don’t get rich people food,” you mutter. The noble beside you laughs quietly. Once everyone has finished with that pointless dish, the servants return and replace it with what looks like bread pudding, and then when they take that away, dinner is over. Some of the nobles leave, some stay and drink. 

De Mourier shakes the Inquisitor’s hand and thanks him profusely for his hospitality, then shakes each Advisor’s hand and you swear that he lingers on you longer than the rest. Then he leaves. 

“That went well,” Cyris says. 

Josephine nods in agreement. “Have a good night, Inquisitor,” she says.  

“You too.”

You stand from your chair shortly after she leaves, “I should go, too,” you say, “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

A chorus of goodbyes follows you out. 


	11. oh little darlin' don't you look charming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to thank you guys for all the kudos and the comments and just for reading in general! it makes me so happy to know that there are people out there that like my writing! thank you so much! 
> 
> anyways, a short chapter this time, but the next one should more than make up for it. 
> 
> as always, comments and critiques are appreciated.

_My Dear Josephine,_

_I passed along the news of De Mourier's visit to a few influential parties, and implied that he was, perhaps, trying to butter both sides of his bread. I would describe the outrage this idea provoked, but that would make this letter indecent, and your spymistress would abscond with it._

_You play as beautifully as ever, my dear. I can hardly wait to see what De Mourier's next move is. Give my love to your parents._

_Yours,_

_Vicomtesse Elodie De Morreau_

 

_————_

It takes a little over two weeks before you see the fruits of your labors — or, rather, Josephine’s labors. You overhear her talking to Cyris about it one day when you were definitely absolutely totally _not_ eavesdropping! But anyway, one of Josephine’s dear friends had let it slip that, perhaps, Comte De Mourier was trying to sidle up to the Inquisition while also charming its enemies, and that had not gone over well, and he was disgraced. Or assassinated. With Orlesians, it could go either way. 

Shortly after that, Cyris called a war meeting, which is… where you are now. The others have gone on about reports and troop movements and letters and have apparently forgotten that you can’t read. You’re too embarrassed to remind them. 

“There is a sizable group of Venatori camped out in the Hissing Wastes,” Leliana says, her eyes skimming over the parchment in her hands, “Apparently they are working their slaves to death to unearth something. Harding strongly suggests we put an end to it soon.” 

“What is even worth digging up in that desert,” Cyris grumbles. 

“Something dangerous, if the Venatori are after it,” Leliana says. 

Cyris sighs, “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it _now._ ” 

“It does come at a poor time,” Leliana agrees. 

“Unfortunately, there is no way you would be able to make it back before the Winter Palace,” Josephine tells the room, “with all the planning and the lessons, it’s impossible.” 

“We could send some troops there to put an end to it,” Cullen suggests. 

Cyris frowns, prodding at one of the war table figurines. He suddenly looks to you. “What do you think, Tabris?”

You blink. He’s asking _you?_ “Uh, well,” you shift your weight, thinking back to what you know about the Hissing Wastes. It’s a desert and it’s not where you find that dragon… is it? Or the weird time temple? “There isn’t anything to find,” you say eventually. 

“That’s good news,” Cyris says. 

Cullen looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. 

“We’ll send troops anyways,” Cyris continues, “Freeing those slaves is just as important as stopping the Venatori from digging something up.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Cullen says. 

“Now, the Winter Palace —“

“Is two months away,” Josephine says, “We have finally gained enough notoriety to be invited. In the meantime, we’ll need to prepare.” 

“With lessons.” Cyris looks less than amused.

“With lessons,” Josephine repeats, smiling, “I know you aren’t happy about it, Inquisitor, but it must be done. You wouldn’t go to battle without your staff, would you?” 

Cyris exchanges a glance with you and you bite back a smile, “ _Some_ of us would,” he says, then sighs. “I see your point, Josephine.” 

“Speaking of, they start today.” Josephine checks something off on her medieval clipboard. How that damn candle doesn’t drop wax onto her papers, you’ll never know. 

“Anything else,” Cyris asks the rest of you, sounding defeated. 

“Our troops are doing well,” Cullen says, “They’ve been beating back the Venatori and the Red Templars. The only areas that seem to still have a high concentration are Emprise Du Lion, the Hissing Wastes, and the Emerald Graves.”

“My scouts are reporting the same,” Leliana chimes in, her hands clasped behind her back, “Much of the Red Templar presence has dwindled in other areas of Ferelden and Orlais.” 

“Good,” Cyris says. 

“But there is one more thing, Inquisitor,” Leliana says. She retrieves a rolled up piece of parchment from her side of the war table and hands it to the Inquisitor. He opens it and reads, his expression gradually darkening the further he gets.

“This is…” he lowers the letter. 

“They don’t sound like normal bandits,” Leliana says, “My scouts can harass their flanks and allow the Dalish to retreat to safety while I uncover the truth.”   


“What of the Duke of Wycome,” Cyris asks, “Surely he isn’t happy about bandits encroaching on his town.” 

“I could reach out to him; he is an Inquisition ally,” Josephine says, “it is odd for him to let bandits so close to his city. Perhaps he could help the Dalish.”

“No simple bandits would attack a Dalish camp with such force. Inquisitor, allow my troops to give the Dalish much-needed support,” Cullen says. 

You’re glad he didn’t ask you, because you have no fucking clue whats going on.

Cyris rolls up the letter and holds it in his lap, staring down at the war table map, thinking. “Send your troops, Commander,” he says. 

“Of course.” 

A few minutes of shuffling paper and silence passes before Josephine speaks, “We should begin with your etiquette first, Inquisitor.” Cyris groans. “And the rest of you should be approached sometime today for a fitting. It is very important that we look our best at the Winter Palace, so don’t brush it off.” She looks pointedly at Cullen. 

“Fine, everyone off,” Cyris waves a hand to dismiss you. 

“Please, follow me, Inquisitor, we haven’t a moment to spare.” 

You watch Cyris and Josephine leave the room. You’re glad you don’t have to attend those lessons, because it sounds like the most boring thing in the world. 

The other two hang back and fuss with the papers left at the war table. For a moment you’re tempted to stay and strike up a conversation, but then you remember that Leliana terrifies you and Cullen also sort of terrifies you (but for a different reason), so you just leave. 

When you exit the main hall, it’s well into late afternoon and you have no idea what to do. Servants and guards and refugees are rushing around, swarming the hold like ants, and you still haven’t gotten used to how busy it is all the time. Being around so many people is nice, especially after spending so long alone in the forest, but it’s also… overwhelming; you need to build up tolerance before being thrown headfirst into a crowd. 

You think about going down to the Undercroft, but you don’t want to bother Harritt. After a moment of wrestling with yourself — and getting nasty looks from people trying to get passed you — you go to your room. 

The tailor finds you a few hours later and measures you. He is _very_ Orlesian, and has two assistants carrying large rolls of different fabrics and leathers and furs and decorative pieces, and his mask is covered in several different colored gems that resembles a bird of some sort. If his clothes are anything like his mask, you aren’t interested.

“Which do you prefer, ser?” His assistants hold up several different shades of green against your skin. 

Shouldn’t this be red? Not that you don’t approve of the change — the Orlesian outfits from the game were fucking hideous. You shrug and look at the tailor, “Surprise me.” 

“Fantastic,” he says, and points at a pale green that reminds you of leaves in a misty morning. “That is all we need from you, Ser. Have a lovely day.” He marks the chosen fabric with a line of ink, snaps his fingers at his assistants, and leaves. 


	12. cause I don't know how to walk out of this deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's been so long! and i saw lord huron in concert and i just want to brag bc i love them so much
> 
> thank you again for all the kudos and comments!!!! enjoy!!!!

You don’t know how you got dragged into this. 

“There will be three forks: the salad fork, which is the fork farthest from the plate; the dinner fork, which is the large fork in the middle; and the dessert fork, which is the fork closest to the plate.” Josephine touches each fork as she explains them, then turns to look at you and Cyris, “Memorize them — choosing the incorrect utensil could lose more allies than you think.” 

“Aren’t you being a little dramatic, Josephine?” Cyris asks, a frown etched onto his face.

The table in front of you has been set to resemble what the Winter Palace’s banquet table will look like, complete with the latest tablecloth, flower arrangements, and condiment placements. There is one place setting with several forks and spoons and knives and glasses and plates and bowls and you have _no_ idea why the hell there are so many pieces of china. Why do you need three different forks? Just clean them off on your napkin when you need to use them again!

“Absolutely not, Inquisitor,” Josephine idly straightens one of the knives, “Orlais puts stock in appearances and…” she trails off and glances away, clearly debating how to phrase what she’s about to say next delicately. “You are obviously Dalish, Inquisitor; if you misstep, the Orlesians will see you as no better than a common slave.”

His expression darkens and you can practically _feel_ the anger radiating off him. “Right,” he says, voice even, “No pressure.” 

Josephine touches the taller wine glass, “This is for water,” she says, continuing as if the previous exchange had not occurred. All for the better, you think — Cyris looks like he’s a few seconds away from lighting the room on fire. Hopefully talking about wine goblets soothes him. 

This entire lesson is stupid. 

As much as you love learning about table etiquette (read: not very much), this is a waste of valuable time — you could be killing Red Templars or saving slaves from the Venatori instead of learning which fork to use when. 

(All you have to do is work towards the plate, anyways.)

_They_ don’t know, but by the time dinner rolls around, no one will care about your table manners — hell, they’ll probably be too drunk to notice! And even if they did, they’d be glad enough that you had just saved the Empress’s life that they wouldn’t say anything. 

From far off, you hear the tolling of the garden bell, signaling the time. The sound floats in through the open doors of Cyris’s tower room and Josephine pauses, a small frown settling on her face before she sighs and sets the goblet she had been holding onto the table. “I suppose that is enough for today,” she says. 

“Praise Mythal,” Cyris mutters. 

“We can continue tomorrow,” she says, “You know enough to attempt a run-through. After that, we should be able to move on to your dance lessons.” 

“Lovely,” he says, “have a good night, Josephine.” 

She inclines her head to the both of you, “You as well.” She gathers her clipboard and a few pieces of parchment before she leaves. 

Once the door closes, Cyris shakes his head and turns to you, “I _never_ want to see silverware again.”

You push one of the spoons out of place and smile, “The dance lessons will be worse, probably.” 

He sighs and moves to his desk, fussing with the few papers that have been strewn across it. The room is silent for several moments. “Would you care to join us for Wicked Grace tonight?”

“Uh,” you run your finger along the rim of the plate, “Who’ll be there?” 

“Just about everyone,” Cyris replies, “Except for Josephine, Vivienne, and Solas. Cullen might not show up but, well, I _did_ threaten to fire him if he didn’t.” 

You smile. Standing around a table covered in cards instead of a war map _would_ be a nice change of pace for you. Plus, you need to get used to crowds if you don’t want to have a panic attack in the middle of the Winter Palace. “Sure,” you say after a moment. 

“Fantastic,” he exclaims, a grin splitting his face, and you’re a little touched that he’s so happy that you agreed, “I can finally introduce you to everyone. They’re all curious about you.”

About _you_? “…why?”

“Well, you are a new member of the Inquisition,” he says, “and you are a bit of an enigma. You hide in your room all day, after all.” 

You bristle. “I don’t hide in there all day.” 

He raises an eyebrow at you as if to say _are you sure?_ but otherwise drops it. “We’ll be in the tavern after dinner,” he says, “come whenever you’d like. The game should last a bit, I think.” 

You pluck a flower from the arrangement on the table. “I’ll be there,” you say.

“Bring some money,” he says, smirking, “Bull likes to play for high stakes.” 

You roll your eyes and leave. 

Nope — you aren’t bringing _anything._ Mostly because you don’t plan on playing at all; card games aren’t your forte, have never been, and you have absolutely no idea how to play Wicked Grace. If you tried, you’d probably lose all your money and you don’t want that. 

Besides, it isn’t about the game — it’s about _socializing._ And if what Cyris said is anything to go by, there are going to be questions. 

About you. 

You cringe. You’re going to have to come up with some semi-believable lie because telling them that you lived alone in the forest for your entire life is not going to cut it. Maybe you grew up in Ferelden? Or the Free Marches? The lack of vallaslin on your face sends the Dalish clan origin out the window, but maybe an alienage would work. _Are_ there alienages in the Free Marches? Ugh!

It would be so much easier if you could just tell the truth, but that would probably end with you locked in the dungeons waiting for some Thedosian exorcist to come along with a sword or a Tranquility stamp and you _definitely_ don’t want that. So, lying! 

For the rest of your fucking life. 

You steal some food from the cafeteria and hang out on the battlements, trying not to mope. The falling sun glints off the armor of frantic guards and scouts as they run around, trying to get all their duties done before dinner or the end of their shift, and you envy them a little because they don’t have to deal with lying to people they admire about something big. 

A few minutes later, you see Blackwall enter the tavern, and once a few more pass, you follow. 

You open the door and it’s _packed,_ which comforts you more than you thought it would — if you really wanted to, you could turn and leave and no one would know. And for a moment, you’re tempted, but then Cyris catches your eye from across the room and waves you over, grinning, and whatever ideas you had about leaving vanish in an instant. You shove through the throngs of people and squeeze passed chairs until you reach the large table in the back.

The back of the tavern is a lot different, a lot quieter and a lot cozier. That big fireplace cuts you off from the rest of the room, giving you some semblance of privacy, and the lower ceilings make it feel less like a bar and more like a nice place to hang out. 

Sera is the first to greet you, her boots propped up on the tabletop and her mug of ale high in the air in some form of a wave, “Hey! Finally joinin’, yeah?” 

“Tabris,” Cyris says, putting his arm around your shoulder once you sidle up beside him, “Everyone, this is Tabris, our new spirit healer.” 

You smile and can practically feel the anxiety showing on your face. “Yeah. Uh, hello, everyone,” you give a little wave. A chorus of greetings echoes around the table.

“Ah, our enigmatic friend finally shows their face,” Varric says, shuffling the cards in his hand. 

“I was beginning to think our dear Inquisitor made you up,” Dorian adds. 

You chuckle nervously, “Uh, no, I am… real.” 

Wow. Nice one. 

“Sit down, yeah? No use standin’ the whole night,” Sera shoves one of the chairs out and motions for you to sit. You do. 

“Alright,” Varric taps the deck of cards twice on the table, “let’s get started.” He passes five to each person — including you. You’d have given them back, but the look Cyris and Sera give you has you keeping them. 

You angle yourself away from Sera, who isn’t even hiding the fact that she’s trying to sneak a look at your cards and examine your hand. It seems… okay. You end up with an angel, two serpents, a knight, and a dagger. There’s at least one matching pair, which you count as a win.

Some of the others don’t seem as pleased with their cards.

Cassandra makes a face, much to your amusement. You scan the faces of the others surrounding the table, but it’s difficult to tell — Sera seems a little disappointed; Cyris is smiling ever so slightly; Cullen looks put off, but that might just be because he’s been forced to attend. The rest of them seem a lot better at hiding their tells, or else you just haven’t been around them enough to see anything. 

“Five coppers sounds like a good start,” Varric says to the table.

The Iron Bull makes a sound and rolls his eyes, “Ah, come on, live a little!”

Varric chuckles, “I’m only trying to save you from losing all your money, Tiny.”

“Big talk for a little man,” Bull shoots back. 

“Ouch,” Varric says with mock hurt, and then everyone is tossing their five coppers into the middle and the game begins. 

It turns out that it _is_ a lot like poker — aside from the near constant cheating — with the object being to have a matching hand and to bluff your way through rounds until everyone else folds or the Angel of Death forces you to show your cards. There are some other rules in there and some suits and combinations that don’t make sense to you, but you get the gist. 

Cassandra is the first to fold, followed by Blackwall, then you, then Sera, then Dorian, and finally Cyris. It’s a little surprising to see Cullen still in there, fighting for the pot despite, judging by his expressions, what has to be a dismal hand.

“I’m shocked, Curly,” Varric says, a smirk on his lips and his chair balancing precariously on its back two legs, “Didn’t think you’d last this long.” 

The rest of the table has quieted, eager to see who’s going to win. You’d bet all those coppers that Cyris is going to be smug if Cullen ends up victorious — “see what happens when you venture out of your cave, Commander?” he’ll say. 

“It’s all about strategy, Varric,” Cullen remarks, his eyes on his cards. 

Varric shakes his head, chuckling, and pulls the next card from the top of the deck. He places it face-up on the table, and the Angel of Death smiles at the roof of the tavern. 

“Read ‘em and weep.” Bull spreads his cards on the table, showing three serpents and two Kings. 

Cullen sighs and lays down his cards, revealing a mess of knights and serpents and face cards, none of which match. Bull laughs as he pulls the pile of coins towards him. 

“A shite hand, that is,” Sera says. 

“A valiant effort, Commander,” Dorian adds. 

Varric retrieves the cards from around the table and shuffles them back into the deck, his chair now resting safely on all four legs. “There’s always next round.”

“And the next one, and the next one, and the next one,” Dorian says.

Blackwall snorts. “Might have to think up a new strategy besides just lying.” 

“I suppose I could always hide a few cards up my sleeve,” Cullen shoots back.

Cassandra slams her hand on the table, looking aghast, “I knew it!”

Varric doles out the new set of five amongst the chatter. You let Sera sneak a peek at yours and she grins, elbowing you in the side. She’s not even really playing — mostly drinking and trying to sneak a few coppers out of the pot without anyone noticing. 

Your hand is actually pretty good: one knight and four songs. You could win, if you play your cards right (haha!), and that sure would be nice. Could buy yourself some warmer clothes with all those coppers. 

“Try to hide your tells a bit better this time, Commander,” Bull says, grinning smugly at Cullen.

After a couple turns, the round devolves into story time. Everyone is more interested in talking and joking or listening to the outlandish stories that Varric spins than playing. You’re content to sit back and fidget with your cards, just soaking in the atmosphere. 

“And he just grabbed his staff, turned, and walked out.”

“Like nothing happened,” Cassandra asks, leaning forward, her elbows on the table. 

“Like nothing happened!” Varric says, “Didn’t even apologize for breaking the table.” 

“Strangest things happen to you, dwarf,” Blackwall says, raising his tankard to his mouth.

“Assuming most of what he says is true,” Dorian says. 

“You doubt me, Sparkler?” 

Dorian smirks, “If I tell you the truth, will my portrayal in your book be less than virtuous?”

Varric places his hand over his heart, “Are you questioning my artistic integrity? For shame!” 

The table laughs and a few more cards get pulled from the deck, but none of them are the Angel of Death so no one really pays attention. You’re beginning to think that you’re the only one still interested in playing, but that doesn’t bother you too much. Listening to the joking and the people around you is more interesting than winning money, anyways. 

You sneak a peak at Sera’s cards, the ones she’s put face-up on the table like she doesn’t care if everyone sees — which is probably the truth, you think. They’re all mismatched. 

“So, Tabris,” Cassandra cuts through the chatter, her chin propped in her hand, and your eyes snap up to meet her’s, afraid you’re about to get yelled at for cheating, “where are you from?” The table quiets down. 

Your mind stutters to a complete halt and all you manage to get out is a dumb, “Why?” 

Her brows furrow. “Wouldn’t you want to know about your new companion?”

“Oh, yeah.” You shift in your seat, “Ferelden.” 

“Really,” she asks, “I’m not familiar with your accent. Where exactly?” 

“W-We didn’t stay in one places for long, my family,” you lie, and redirect your gaze to the tabletop, “It was all over.” 

“Cold, dark, silent — how can snow reach the ground if the trees cover the sky,” Cole chimes in, his face obscured by his large hat. You swallow hard.

“Yeah,” you say lamely, “then I spent time in the Korcari Wilds.”

“That’s a nasty place,” Blackwall says.

You nod. “I learned all my magic in there, actually,” you say, eager to change the subject, “and about demons.” 

“In the woods?” Cassandra leans back and drapes her arm over the back of her chair, “Who taught you?” 

Fuck, shit, you didn’t plan for that question. Should you tell the truth? Would that be weird? You put your playing cards face down on the table and immediately miss not having them to fidget with. “I did,” you tell them, deciding that this, at least, would be easier not to lie about. 

“You taught _yourself_ ,” Cyris asks, eyebrows raised, “How long were you in the woods?”

You frown, “Six years.”

“And your magic didn’t manifest until you were that old?” 

You look at Cyris, an eyebrow raised, “ _That_ old?” 

Cyris waves his hand, “You know what I mean.” 

“It didn’t. But the woods taught me a lot about magic, so I guess that was a good thing.” 

“It can’t be uncommon for magic not to appear ’til later,” Blackwall says. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the Wilds didn’t have something to do with it,” Cyris says, “Our First always told us nasty stories about that place, about werewolves and such.” 

“Still, it is impressive,” Cassandra says, “no wonder your fighting style is so… unique.”

“Almost as reckless as mine, I’d say,” Cyris says, grinning, and pats your shoulder, as if that’s somehow a thing worth celebrating. 

“I feel like you’re teasing us, Inquisitor,” Dorian says, “I want to see our new friend tear a Red Templar limb from limb now.” 

“Is that the gossip in the rotunda,” you ask, smiling despite yourself. 

“I may have let a few things slip,” Cyris tells you, “although, I’m certain those refugees you saved have told the entire camp and all it’s guards what you did for them.” 

_Tanner probably did_ , you think, running your finger along the edge of the table. “I’m sure they make it sound a lot more heroic than it was,” you say. 

“Killing six Red Templars by yourself is heroic enough,” Blackwall says, “no need to lie to make that any more impressive.” 

“How’d you end up in those woods anyway,” Sera asks.

“Bad luck.”

Sera scoffs, “ _That_ sounds like a long story.” 

“I’d rather talk about killing those templars,” you say. 

She laughs and doesn’t say anything more about the woods. 

“I’m just thrilled to have a real healer on our side,” Dorian says, “as fun as it was to watch Solas and Vivienne bicker over how to do what.”

“Sure Vivienne’ll be sore an apostate has upstaged her in healing,” Blackwall says, chuckling, “Or _another_ apostate, depending on your preference.” 

“Tabris is better than those two combined, I’m sorry to say,” Cyris tells the table, “aren’t they, Cassandra?” 

“I’d have to agree,” she says, nodding, “but I wouldn’t tell Madame de Fer that.” 

“Not yet, anyways,” Dorian says, “maybe let her hear it from another reliable source.” 

“I’m sure she already knows,” Cyris says, “sometimes I wonder if her and Leliana are conspiring, the way they know everything.” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Dorian says. 

“I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic not having to clean up after you anymore,” Varric says. 

“So she’s handing the job of babysitting off to me,” you ask. 

“Looks like it.”

The tavern is quiet now, most patrons having left or gotten too drunk to do anything but fall asleep at their tables. Maryden is still softly playing her lute, but she stopped singing a long time ago. 

“I should get going,” Cullen says, and then pauses as he’s halfway up to look at Cyris, “do I have your permission, Inquisitor?” 

“I’m so pleased you asked,” Cyris says, grinning, and waves his hand, “you can go, Commander.” 

“I think he should tell us if he’s learned his lesson first,” Dorian tells Cyris. 

Cullen rolls his eyes and takes his five coppers from the pot, which Bull has left behind, “Yes, yes, I should come out of my office more,” he says, “it was a fun evening, I’ll give you that.” 

“If you join us sometimes I won’t threaten you,” Cyris tells him. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Inquisitor.” 

You give a little wave to Cullen as he leaves. “I should leave too,” you say, looking back at the table. 

“You need to join us more, too,” Cyris says, “don’t make me threaten to fire you, Tabris. I will.” 

You chuckle, “I know, Cyris.” 

“Does that mean you’ll socialize more often?” 

“Yeah.”

Dorian snorts as he’s bringing his wine glass to his lips. He looks at you sidelong, “That doesn’t sound like much of a commitment.” 

You raise your right hand, “Mage’s honor.” 

“Good thing Cullen left,” Cyris says. 

You grin and push his shoulder lightly before standing. “I’ll come next time you do the Wicked Grace thing,” you tell him, “maybe I’ll win.”

“You might if you learn how to cheat,” Cyris says, “I’m fairly certain that's the only way to beat Bull.” 

“Only divine intervention could beat Bull, I’d wager,” Blackwall says, “or maybe Solas.” 

Cyris groans and throws his head back, “ _Don’t_ remind me, please. I’m still reeling from the last time he played with us.” 

“I’m glad he’s more interested in the Fade than taking all our coin,” Blackwall says. 

You wave at the table and leave while they’re talking, deciding that their change in subject is cue for you to get out of there while you still can. 

The walk back to your rooms is quiet and peaceful, only the occasional chirping of crickets breaking the silence. You nod to the guards standing atop the battlements near your room, even though you don’t think they can see you, before sneaking into your room. You fall asleep before you change out of your clothes. 


	13. she has cloaked me in black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> notable line from this chapter: shut up, dorian! 
> 
> translation:  
> le lapin - the rabbit
> 
> enjoy!

The stylist does a good job hiding the bags under your eyes. 

“You look absolutely marvelous, mon cheri,” she says as she adjusts your hair. “No one will be able to keep their eyes off you.” 

You smooth down the front of your coat, already feeling out of place. 

“Do you like it?” 

The floor length mirror reflects a stranger. It isn’t just because of the stylist’s intervention, although that certainly hasn’t helped, it’s -- it’s just. Well, it’s the ears, mostly. And the scars. You swallow hard. 

Your hair has been cut shorter and styled to look like it hasn’t been styled at all, pushed back with a strand strategically allowed to fall in front of your eyes. She’s spread a thick line of black across your lash lines, saying something about how it will “bring out your eyes, mon cheri!” as if you cared enough to protest. Your ears are adorned with gold clasps and small hoops and chains and anything that had been deemed “elven enough”, because that seemed to be an important design detail. 

The outfit itself is the same as it had been in-game, aside from the color: this variation is black with a pale green sash and gold embellishments, white pants, and black leather boots. 

Overall, you look… nice?

It’s jarring. You find it hard to recognize the person in the mirror as you. 

“I look very nice, thank you,” you lie. 

She grins and claps her hands together, “Merveilleux! Oh, mon cheri, I am so pleased you enjoy it. Now, go, before they leave without you!” She shoos you out. 

You step into the small hallway outside of your hotel room and close the door behind you. Josephine and Leliana are already there.    


“Tabris!” Josephine approaches you, smiling, and gives you a once-over. “You look magnificent!” 

“Thanks,” you say lamely. 

“Did you enjoy your style session,” Leliana asks, still leaning against the wall. She looks different without the hood. 

“Not really.”

She smirks. 

“Now we only need the Inquisitor,” Josephine says, glancing down the hallway, “What  _ is  _ taking him so long?”   
  
“Where’s everyone else,” you ask.

“They are waiting with the carriages,” Josephine says.

“Have you seen anything since we last spoke, Tabris,” Leliana asks. 

You open your mouth to speak, but stop short.

This timeline is teetering on a knife’s edge, just waiting for you to overstep so it can go tumbling down into Corypheus ruling forever. That is  _ not  _ something you want -- this has to play out the right way and giving them a heads up on who the assassin is could blow it all to hell. So, no.

You shake your head. 

Cyris exits his room a few moments later, idly adjusting the strap running across his chest much to his stylist’s annoyance. He looks at the three of you and smiles, “Are we ready?” 

You notice his ears immediately, all done up like yours, albeit a little more refined and elegant. His coat has the Inquisition symbol embroidered in gold on the front and the same design stitched in a pattern on his sash. Everything about it screams I’m The Inquisitor!

“As ever, Inquisitor,” Josephine says.

“Let’s go.”

>><<

You stare out the window of the carriage, watching the colorful cobblestones blend together as you roll over them. The advisors are making conversation beside you, going over plans and discussing people they think could be the assassin, all while telling Cyris to “be careful” and “don’t get killed” and things like that. 

The small swatch of Halamshiral you see through the window is gorgeous. All the buildings are bright white with dashes of blues and reds and purples around their roofs or their windows and they are all very tall, two stories at the least, reaching up towards the sky, everything sharp angles and clean. Cloth extends from balconies and roofs to create canopies over the wider streets and the market area, shielding the bustling crowds from the sun. There are flowers almost everywhere and they are just as colorful as the city itself, maybe a little less, and sometimes you can see a canal running along the street when the buildings break.

It isn’t comparable to anything you’d seen in your world -- it’s an odd mix of old French and Mediterranean and something intrinsically  _ fantasy. _

The smell of meat and fresh baked bread wafts through the open window, making your stomach rumble. 

“Tabris, the future sees us winning, doesn’t it?” Cyris’s voice calls you back to the present. 

You look back at the four of them, blinking. “Uh, yes?”

“That sounds convincing,” Cullen says, straightening in his seat.

“Give us something with a little more feeling, Tabby,” Cyris says. 

You open your mouth to respond, but your words get caught in your throat. “Tabby,” you repeat incredulously. 

Cyris just grins.

You shake your head and look back out the window, “Just be careful and everything will work out.” 

“See! No need to worry, our future is bright.”

“They said to be careful, Inquisitor, not that you can do whatever you like.” 

Cyris waves a hand at Leliana, “Of course, of course. I can’t believe, after all this time, you doubt me.”

You catch Leliana and Josephine exchange a look. “It isn’t that, Inquisitor,” Josephine begins, “It’s just… well, you haven’t kept your contempt of Orlesians a secret.”

He snorts, “I won’t endanger the future of the world just because I happen to hate Orlesians.”

“Inquisitor,” Leliana warns.

“ _ Most  _ Orlesians,” he corrects.

Leliana starts to speak, but then the carriage door is being opened and you’ve arrived at the Winter Palace. 

You catch sight of Gaspard waiting at the golden gates with a smile. Cyris steps out first amidst rows of Inquisition soldiers and some awed looks from the Orlesian nobility. Josephine motions for you all to wait, likely to make the arrival of the Inquisitor a little more dramatic. 

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” the Duke greets loudly, calling attention to what is likely to be the most popular gossip of the evening, “it is an honor to meet you at last.”

“Grand Duke Gaspard, it is my pleasure,” Cyris says, striding up to shake his outstretched hand.

“Bringing the rebel mages into the ranks of your army was a brilliant move,” Gaspard begins, “Imagine what the Inquisition could accomplish with the support of the rightful emperor of Orlais.” 

You step out of the carriage last to the least amount of stares and whispers. The Duke is motioning for Cyris to follow, his voice fading out as he moves further into the courtyard. “I am not a man who forgets his friends, Inquisitor,” you hear him say, “You help me, I’ll help you.” 

The seven of you -- advisors and Cyris’s chosen three -- meet at the fountain just inside of the gates. “Take your places in the Grand Ballroom,” Josephine says to you, then looks to Dorian, Cassandra, and Vivienne, “if you three would keep an eye on the Inquisitor. I do not trust the Grand Duke.”

“Of course, Ambassador,” Dorian says with a smile, “we’ll keep him out of trouble.” 

They disappear after the Inquisitor. Josephine bids you farewell a moment later, making her way into the Grand Vestibule. Cullen and Leliana stay behind. 

“It will be interesting to see how this plays out,” Cullen remarks. 

Leliana nods in agreement. “Do you see anything untoward about the Grand Duke, Tabris?”

You look into the fountain. If you want them to see you as an important asset, you need to give them something. “The Grand Duke is planning an attack tonight,” you say, “he’s invited mercenaries into the palace and they’re waiting for his instructions.” 

Cullen steps closer and you resist the impulse to back away. “Gaspard is the assassin?”

“No,” you say, looking back up at the two of them, “besides, his plan won’t work.”

Leliana motions for you to follow her toward the entrance of the Winter Palace, “I’m not surprised,” she says, voice low, “The Empress is clever. There’s no way he could organize enough mercenaries to commit a coup without her knowing.”   


“At least we’re able to narrow our list of suspects down,” Cullen says.

The golden gates swing open before you, allowing entrance into the Winter Palace. 

Leliana glances back, her expression guarded, “Yes,” she says, once you’re climbing the stairs to the grand ballroom, “unfortunately for us, Orlesian politics deal mostly with lies and deceit. Anyone could be working for Corypheus, even the lowliest of noble if they thought it would bring prestige.”

“What a pleasant country,” Cullen deadpans. You snort. 

Leliana stops and turns to face you both, positioned in the corner away from prying eyes and ears. She clasps her hands behind her back, “We have a few allies among the nobles. I’ve told them to keep their eyes out for anything suspicious,” she says, “apart from that, we’ll be on our own. We need to pay attention and, above all, make sure no one becomes suspicious of the Inquisitor. He’ll have to do most of the work on his own.”

“Of course,” Cullen says.

“What’s the plan when we find the assassin,” you ask. 

“We will apprehend them before they can complete their task.” Leliana shifts and glances at the nobles gathered near you.

“Okay.”   
  
“Let us know if you see anything, Tabris.”

You nod. 

Leliana moves to step away, then pauses. Cullen has already left. “Also, I’m sure the Orlesians will be very… intrigued by your introduction. Humor them.”

You smirk, “I’ll keep them entertained.”

Josephine appears at Leliana’s side a moment later, “We are being introduced.”

The Grand Ballroom is the picture of beauty; angelic statues protrude from the pillars above the lowered dance floor, their wings reaching to the sky, and golden figures of bare-breasted women holding up four-sided clocks stand near the entrance, serving a purpose more akin to glamor than function. 

The ceiling is covered in ornate gold filigree and a fresco of scenes from Andraste’s life. A large chandelier of fine crystal and candles hangs from the ceiling, floating magnificently over the ballroom floor, and what seems like nearly a thousand candles light the room in dazzling firelight. 

Dark blue drapes cover the walls and the pillars and hang from the statues and plush carpeting breaks up the monotony of the tile flooring. Almost everything is embroidered or stamped or stenciled with a golden Lion, the emblem of the empire, and none of the designs are simple. 

A man in a full mask directs you to the wide staircase leading down to the dance floor. Gaspard is already there, waiting on the platform. It’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking. 

“And now presenting,” the man in the mask begins loudly, unrolling a parchment scroll, “Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons.” 

Gaspard doesn’t hesitate in his bow -- to anyone unaware, he would seem like a man who actually respected the Empress and wasn’t planning a coup for later that evening. He walks down the short flight of stairs and crosses the floor, his steps reverberating in the silent room. 

The announcer waits until he’s almost halfway across before he raises the scroll and reads again. “And accompanying him, the Lord Inquisitor Lavellan, of Clan Lavellan.”

Cyris bows to Celene, who has finally stepped into the flickering light, before he, too, descends the stairs. 

“Purger of the heretics from the ranks of the faithful and champion of the blessed Andraste herself.”

The nobles are in awe. You can hear them whispering and see a few leaning over the railing to get a better look. It’s difficult to tell whether it’s due to them respecting the Inquisitor or simply being intrigued by a “rabbit” holding such a high position of power. 

You scowl. As if this night wasn’t bad enough -- how many french racists are you going to have to deal with? You don’t want to cause a problem for the Inquisition, but if someone calls you (or Cyris) a rabbit, you will kill them. 

You tear your gaze away from the fawning nobles and to the others waiting for their turn across the floor. No one looks as rattled or annoyed as you’re certain you do. The only good thing about this is that you get to wear something nice for once -- and, boy oh boy, do you like this better than that red and blue color palette from the game. 

Dorian leans down and you can hear the smile in his voice when he whispers, “Have a thing for strapping young templars, I see.” 

You glare at him. “What are you talking about?”

He nods over to where you had been blankly staring which, you realize with dawning horror, is Cullen’s ass.

“What? No, I was not looking at that, I was just admiring the, the outfit and -- and that’s  _ it _ ,” you hiss, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“Oh, you were admiring  _ something,  _ alright.”

“Shut up, Dorian.” 

He chuckles. “Sweet, sweet Tabris,” he pats the side of your face before you can smack his hand away, “and here I thought that your staring during Wicked Grace was just a coincidence. I see now that I was horribly mistaken.” 

You fold your arms, “Shouldn’t you be walking across the floor right about now?”

“When I have the opportunity to tease our newest member? Absolutely not.” 

“Lord Dorian Pavus, member of the Circle of Aranthium, son of Lord Halward Pavus of Azariel,” the announcer’s voice rings out loud and clear, interrupting Dorian’s next quip and prompting him onto the platform.

You scowl at his back. Ridiculous -- you weren’t actually looking! Zoning out in the direction of someone’s ass is totally normal and not indicative of your feelings toward them at all. 

“Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, Commander of the forces of the Inquisition, former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall.”   
  
Dorian is going to get his ass kicked the next time you see him. He better not spread this around — the last thing you need is to be the subject of Skyhold’s gossip.   
  
“Lady Leliana, Nightingale of the Imperial Court. Veteran of the Fifth Blight. Seneschal of the Inquisition and Left Hand of the Divine.”

You smooth down your sash.

“Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet of Antiva City, Ambassador of the Inquisition.”

  
Great. You’re next.

You brush your hair back and step forward, glancing toward the announcer, before your eyes snap back to the Empress.

“And Ser Tabris, Arcane advisor to the Inquisition.” 

A modest introduction. You bow to Celene before you follow the path across the empty floor, ignoring the feeling of eyes on you.

“I’m pleased you were able to attend. Enjoy your evening,” Celene says when you approach; the same canned greeting she gives to all guests that don’t deserve something more personalized. You dip your head slightly in response, then climb the stairs and move to your assigned spot in the back corner of the Grand Ballroom. 

You drown out the rest of the introductions, instead focusing on the sparse collection of nobles around you -- that mostly includes hearing them gush about the Inquisitor or wonder, loudly, how a “rabbit” could have become leader of the Inquisition.    
  
You clench your fists and feel the fluttering of magic around them.

The room erupts into applause after the last introduction. Celene offers a few words about enjoying the party and some comments about the Civil War, but you don’t catch anything substantial, just the melody of her voice as she speaks. The band strikes up the moment she finishes and the room fills with the sounds of lutes and violins. Some of the nobles begin to dance, but most stand and mingle. Servants enter the room shortly after, carrying hors d’oeuvres and champagne on large silver trays. 

No one pays much mind to you, despite Leliana’s warning. The nobles eyes don’t stick, passing over you like they don’t even  _ see  _ you -- which isn’t a bad thing, honestly. You don’t want to speak to them. 

You hadn’t anticipated how mind-numbingly boring this would be; in game, you got to do cool shit -- but you were the Inquisitor then. Now, you’re just some dumb advisor who gets to stand around and pretend to be piecing together a mystery when really you already know what’s going to happen. 

Ugh. You should just tell them, maybe that’ll speed things up so you can get out of here. 

You snatch a flute of champagne from a passing tray and down it in one swallow. 

A noble near you gasps. One whispers about the “occult advisor” and for a moment you’re worried, but then you look and you see Cyris standing at the entrance of the vestibule with Morrigan. 

Uh oh. 

This isn’t good.

“ _ Where  _ did she even come from,” one of the nobles asks, nearly spilling her champagne when she motions towards the two. 

“I do not know what the Empress sees in her,” the other noble says. 

The Empress will give you Morrigan. You like Morrigan, you do, but she’s one of the few that could see through your ruse -- and while she can’t do much about it, she can make your life a little harder.

“She is a  _ snake _ ,” the first slurs. The second noble shushes her. 

Knowing someone could figure you out is… nerve-wracking. 

“Ah, le lapin.” 

“Tabris!” Cyris approaches you with open arms, blatantly ignoring the nobles around you. 

“Inquisitor,” you say. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

You shrug and place your empty glass on a passing tray. “Find anything?” 

Cyris sighs and drops his voice, “Not much. Morrigan was our next best lead, but it seems she’s innocent.” 

“Seems like it.”

“She did give us a key to the servant’s quarters,” he folds his arms and glances toward the vestibule entrance, “have you heard anything?” 

“Nothing you’d want to hear.”

“Rabbit stuff?”

You nod.

“Have you seen anything?”

Do you have any small detail you could give him? Hm. “There’ll be a lot of fighting,” you say, “so be careful.” 

Cyris grins and lightly pushes you on the shoulder, “When am I not careful?”

You fidget with the end of your sleeve and say nothing. 

“I will go investigate the servant’s quarters,” he says after a moment of silence. “If you could do me a favor and save Cullen, I walked passed him and I worried he’s going to kill someone.”

You look toward the large gathering where Cullen should be. “Why me?”

“Because I’m the Inquisitor and I told you so,” Cyris says. 

What a great reason. You bite back a sigh. “Can we relocate,” you ask, looking to one of the closed balconies.

Cyris nods, “Do whatever you must to avoid a national incident.”

“Alright.” 

He disappears back into the crowd, leaving you with nobles who won’t stop giggling in your direction. 

You don’t spare them a glance, but you do spare Dorian’s words another run-through: strapping young templars -- he isn’t onto something, is he?

Ah, well! You’ll burn that bridge when you get to it. For now, you have a Commander to save. 

You round the ballroom until you reach Cullen and his admirers, none of whom seem to have noticed you. Cool! Shouldering your way through will probably not be great for your court approval, but the nobles aren’t listening to your “excuse me”s and you’re failing to see another option. 

“Oh Commander, you are so amusing,” one of the ladies is saying, raising her hand to her mouth as she laughs daintily. The gesture is somewhat ruined by her mask. 

“Thank you,” Cullen lies -- badly. 

“You simply must tell us another tale! How were you in your younger days,” she asks, and the others around her look enraptured by the question.

Holy fuck. You squeeze between two of the nobles and put your hand on Cullen’s arm. He almost jerks away before he realizes it’s you.

“Tabris,” he exclaims.   


“Hey, can I talk to you alone over somewhere else?” 

“Absolutely! Uh,” he turns to the nobles surrounding him, failing to seem in any way sorry for leaving, “if you’ll excuse me for a moment.” 

“Of course, Commander,” they say. They all look disappointed. 

You grab his arm and lead him towards one of the empty balconies, slipping through the closed doors into the cool night air beyond. Only when you’re safely alone does he break the silence.

“Thank you,” he says, “those Orlesians are… relentless.” He shudders. 

You sit down on one of the benches and stretch your legs, “Yeah, I can imagine.” 

Cullen stays standing. “I’ll have to return eventually,” he says, “but at least this will give me a few moments of peace.”

“I told Cyris we’d be relocating actually, so we can stay here.” 

“But we need to stay on the lookout for the assassin,” Cullen objects. 

“And you must have been doing that so well surrounded by handsy Orlesians,” you say. 

He frowns and turns toward the large gardens the balcony hangs over. “I suppose you’re right,” he says.”

“Why do they like you anyways?”

He raises a brow at you.

It takes a moment. Your eyes go wide. “Oh! That’s not to say it’s difficult to see why someone would like you,” you say, feeling your cheeks heat up. What kind of insulting question -- “It’s just that, well, you know. No one else has six people surrounding them at all times!” 

He looks back over the railing and chuckles lightly, “If only I knew. Orlesians have strange taste.”

“Well, sorry you had to deal with that,” you say, “if I knew how to curse people I’d take care of them for you.” 

“Somehow I doubt Josephine would be pleased with that.”

You wave your hand dismissively, “She won’t be mad if she never finds out!”

Cullen sits down on the bench across from you, “Given your track record, I don’t think it would remain a secret for long.” 

“Track record?”

“All  _ kid _ ding aside.”

You place your hand over your heart and gasp, “Commander, did you just make a joke? I feel like I’m watching a baby horse walk for the first time.”

“Ha. Ha.”

You both lapse into silence and soon you’re staring blankly at the starry sky, trying to calculate how long this peace will last. 

If you’re right, you have about thirty minutes before Cyris returns for his dance with the devil. It’s been a long time and real life is  _ a lot  _ different than the video game, but you know the basic gist: sneaking, fighting, more sneaking, more fighting, speaking with Briala, then back to the ballroom. You should have enough time to decompress. 

Some birds perched on the roof squawk at you. 

You weren’t prepared for this. Crowds had never been a source of comfort for you to begin with, but this is something else. You can’t even imagine what it would have been like to be surrounded like Cullen had -- you probably would have burst into tears. Even just the thought makes your heart begin to race. 

“Do you really think we’ll save the Empress in time, Tabris?” 

You look back at Cullen, who’s staring out at the gardens still. “That depends,” you say. 

He sighs. “I don’t care much for Celene, but Gaspard is infinitely worse.” 

“Any Orlesian is bad,” you joke, but it falls flat. You look down at your hands folded in your lap. “I wouldn’t worry. I doubt Cyris will even consider putting him on the throne once he’s found everything out.”

Silence.

“You know more than you’ve let on.”

It isn’t a question. 

Oh, shit. Why did you say that? Idiot! You keep your gaze fixed on your lap and feel the blood drain from your face. “No, I-I get strong feelings sometimes,” you explain hurriedly, “instead of visions? I have a strong feeling the Inquisitor won’t put Gaspard on the throne at the end of this.” 

He doesn’t respond. You don’t risk looking up to check his expression. 

You sit in silence for some time. Part of you is afraid you’ll look up to see a sword in your face and Cullen demanding to know what you know because that line surely cemented the suspicion of you being a spy further into his mind. Fuck, why are you such an idiot? This is what you get for trying to comfort people. 

He doesn’t seem interested in forcing the truth out of you, however; when you hazard a glance up, he’s still sitting there, looking out at the gardens, and he doesn’t look on the edge of speaking. You breathe a sigh of relief. 

“It is a lovely night, at least,” he says, mostly to himself.

Through the ensuing silence, the band grows louder. You jerk your head up and peer through the window beside you, seeing the nobles gathering around the railing of the dance floor. They look shocked. “We need to go back in,” you jump to your feet and fling open the double doors.

“What --”

Cyris is dancing with Florianne. As soon as Cullen sees this, he falters. 

“What is he doing,” he whispers.

You watch as he spins her across the floor. If only you could ice her now -- that’d save you all some trouble.

Josephine is waiting on the other side of the ballroom, ready to pounce as soon as Cyris exits the dance floor. The song begins to slow and the nobles that were dancing along with them begin to clear out, allowing for the main event. 

You poke Cullen in the side and motion for him to follow, then head around to meet the others. 

It seems like everyone in Orlais has come to watch them dance, and by the time you manage to push through the crowd, the dance is done. 

Leliana reaches Josephine and Cyris before you do. “Were you dancing with Duchess Florianne?” 

Cyris starts to respond, but you speak in a hurried rush as soon as you reach them, “I heard there was fighting in the servant’s quarters.” Cullen looks at you oddly. 

“I hope you have good news. It appears the peace talks are crumbling,” Josephine says, glancing between the three of you before resting her eyes on the Inquisitor. 

Cyris leans closer and drops his voice, “Morrigan helped me into the servant’s quarters, where I found a group of venatori. And Gaspard’s dagger.”

Leliana shakes her head in disgust, “The man would truly do anything to become emperor.”

You want to correct them, but you hold back. 

“Then… the attack on the Empress will happen tonight,” Cullen says. 

“Warning Celene is pointless. She needs these talks to succeed, and to flee would admit defeat,” Josephine says. 

Leliana looks out over the dance floor, her eyes following the nobles, but you can see the wheels turning in her head. “Then… perhaps we should let her die,” she says, slowly, turning her gaze back to Cyris. 

“I thought we were here to stop the assassination,” he says.

“Listen to me carefully, Inquisitor. What Corypheus wants is chaos. Even with Celene alive, that could still happen. To foil his plan, the empire must remain strong. This evening, someone must emerge victorious.”   
  
“And it doesn’t have to be Celene,” Cullen says, “she’s right.”   
  
Josephine looks shocked, like she’s just watched Leliana stab Celene in front of her, “Do you realize what you’re suggesting, Leliana?”

“Sometimes the best path is not the easiest one,” Leliana says.   
  
“I can’t decide this,” Cyris says, “you’re asking me to… to decide the fate of a country! I don’t know anything about politics.”   
  
“We cannot stop Corypheus without a decision. You must support someone or all is lost,” Leliana says.   
  
Josephine nods, “We should support Celene. She is the rightful ruler. Why would we say otherwise?”   
  
“I suggest Briala. She could bring true peace, not only to the empire but also to its elves,” Leliana says.   
  
“Gaspard is also an option,” you add because you’re pretty sure someone has to mention him.   
  
Cyris doesn’t speak. Leliana places her hand on his shoulder, “Even inaction is a decision, Inquisitor.”   
  
“You could speak to Celene in the ballroom, but she won’t act,” Josephine says. “Not without proof.”   
  
“If Gaspard is guilty, he’ll admit nothing. If he’s innocent, he knows nothing. We need the truth,” Cullen says.   
  
Leliana pulls her hand back, “What did Duchess Florianne tell you?”   
  
Cyris sighs, “She said Gaspard’s mercenary captain is in the royal wing. That he knows about the assassination.”   
  
“You sound hesitant to believe her,” Leliana says.   
  
He shrugs, “It could be a trap. Maybe they’re in league together.”   
  
“Or a lead,” Josephine says, “Either way, you should search the private quarters in that wing for clues.”   
  
“Then get me access,” Cyris orders, then looks to Cullen, “and in the meantime, get your soldiers in position.”   
  
“At once,” Cullen says. “Be careful, Inquisitor.”


	14. and there ain't no turning back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's finally happened, folks. i didn't update in the middle of the night.

You’re about to be left with no-fucking-where to go when Cyris puts his hand on your shoulder. “I need you to come with me,” he says. 

You blink at him, “To the private quarters?” 

“We need to find proof as soon as possible. Seeing something might jog your future sight,” he says. “That could work, couldn’t it?” 

“Uh, I guess.” 

He nods and removes his hand, “Good,” he says, “let’s go.”

Sneaking into the royal wing is laughably easy; the nobles are all too engrossed in their own conversations to notice anyone climbing the stairs to a forbidden wing and there are no guards in sight. You aren’t sure if that last thing is due to the Inquisition’s meddling or Florianne’s. 

And not just outside — inside, too. The hallways are empty.

You’d have expected a few guards or servants milling around, but there is _no one._ Apparently, the ball is important enough to allocate everything to it. Seems a bit irresponsible, but who are you to judge? Or maybe Celene is just giving Gaspard enough to hang himself.

You run your finger along the rim of a small vase and Vivienne smacks your hand. “Don’t touch anything, dear,” she warns, and you frown. 

“Oh, let them experience the Orlesian’s hideous decor,” Dorian says, “we’re already breaking and entering.”

You catch Cassandra rolling her eyes as she straps the last of her armor on.

Cyris seems to know where he’s going because he doesn’t hesitate. He leads you down a couple of winding hallways that look exactly the same and you wonder _how_ he can tell these apart, but then you’re through an archway and into a large room with several doors and a big fenced-in hole in the floor. He slows by a pillar and looks at the doors. 

“How does Celene not get lost in this place,” he mutters. 

A moment later, a horrified scream reverberates through the room. 

“The harlequin,” you exclaim.

Cyris rushes passed you and bashes through one of the doors with his shoulder, and there you see a — ridiculously dressed — assassin standing over an elven servant. 

(Like, you get their commitment to the aesthetic, but seriously.)

The servant scrambles back, staring wide-eyed at the raised dagger, until her back hits the wall. 

Cyris moves forward and, just as the harlequin turns, plants his foot in their chest and kicks them out of the window. 

The room is silent while you listen to them fall. 

“Th-Thank you,” the servant says, and Cyris offers his hand to help her up. 

“Are you all right?”

She takes his hand and stands on shaky legs, “I… I don’t think I am hurt.”

“Good,” Cyris says. 

“No one is supposed to be here… Briala said…” she trails off and scowls at the floor, “I shouldn’t have trusted her.”

“Briala told you to come here?” 

“Not personally,” she replies, “the _ambassador_ can’t be seen talking to servants. We get coded messages at certain locations — but the order came from her. She’s been watching the Grand Duke all night, no surprise she wanted someone to search his sister’s room.” 

Cyris glances around the room, “This is Florianne’s room?”

The elf pauses. “It… was. Everyone was moved out of the Royal Wing while it was being renovated.”

“And what did she expect you to find in an empty room,” Vivienne asks.

“I should have known it was a trick,” she says. 

“If there’s a reason you distrust Briala, I want to hear it,” Cyris says, taking a step toward her.

“I knew her — before — when she was Celene’s _pet._ Now she wants to play revolution, but I remember,” she snarls, “she was sleeping with the Empress who purged our alienage!”

His face hardens. “Would you be willing to testify if I asked?”

The elf nods and determination fills her face. “Absolutely,” she says, “if… if the Inquisition will protect me, I’ll tell you everything I know about our _ambassador._ ”

“Most Orlesians would say that’s Celene’s scandal, not Briala’s,” Dorian tells the Inquisitor. 

He nods. “Go to the Ballroom, find Commander Cullen. He’ll keep you safe.” 

“While interesting gossip, I truly doubt that Briala would attempt to assassinate Celene,” Vivienne says once the elf has left, “sordid romance aside.” 

Cyris pulls the window closed and sighs, his hands resting on the sill. “I don’t think so either,” he admits, “but we’ll be prepared no matter what.” 

“The Grand Duke still seems like our best bet,” Vivienne says. 

Dorian leans against the doorframe, “It _is_ curious why someone would send a spy to search the Grand Duchess’ room.” 

“A coincidence,” Cyris asks.

Vivienne smiles. “My dear, in Orlais there is no such thing as coincidence,” she says.

“We should get moving if we want to find the assassin,” you say. 

“Let’s search the other rooms,” Cyris says. He starts to move back the way you came.

But that doesn’t seem right.

You need to go outside. 

None of these rooms lead outside. You aren’t climbing out any windows. The only other option is back the way you came or the hallway by the fireplace. 

“No,” you say and point at the other archway, “we need to go there.”

Cyris stops and looks at you. “Are you sure, Tabris?”

_Nope!_ “Absolutely.” 

“The servant said they’ve moved out of the Royal Wing, didn’t she,” Cassandra says, “I agree with Tabris. There is likely nothing here.” 

You mentally thank Cassandra. 

Cyris seems like he wants to disagree, but after a moment of staring through the door you’d already come through, he sighs. “Alright, let’s go.” 

The hallway is long and dark, a small lantern lighting only the corner, and there’s a sharp turn down another hallway before you exit into a large room. It has tall ceilings, so tall you can hardly see where they stop, and scaffolding and planks of wood and paint and tile. The renovations on this part of the castle are obviously extensive. 

You stop in the middle of the room. There are several doors, some closed off by blue ribbon, but you know that only one leads outside: those blue double doors hidden between two tall pieces of scaffolding. 

“Where to now,” Cyris asks. 

“Here.” You walk to the double doors and place your hand on the handle.

“You sound sure of yourself,” Vivienne says.

“I overheard some people talking in the Grand Ballroom,” you tell her, and hope your lie isn’t completely see-through, “They said something about… mercenaries in the courtyard? Finding a way outside is a better lead than none.”

“So we can expect a fight behind these doors,” Dorian says. You nod. 

Cyris walks up beside you, “Be ready for anything.” And the doors swing open. 

Nothing. 

He takes a few steps forward, brow furrowing, before looking back at the four of you. “Come on,” he says and disappears behind the wall.

You follow, wondering if maybe you got this wrong. 

“We found our mercenary,” Cyris calls, and once you’re in the open courtyard, you see the mercenary bound to a pole and gagged. 

“Looks like the gossip was half-right,” Dorian says. 

“The rest must be somewhere,” Cassandra says. 

Something shifts behind you, but when you look, there’s nothing there. 

“Yes, I doubt whoever is doing this would clean up after themselves,” Vivienne says, glancing around the grounds. “Not when they haven’t elsewhere.” 

Cyris kneels down by the mercenary, “Here, we’ll get you out.” 

Something is in here; you can feel it, hovering, like those monsters in the forest, but you can’t see anything. Have you missed something?

The mercenary yells, but it’s muffled behind the gag, and then it hits you —

“It’s a trap!” 

The doors slam shut and a bright green light splits the sky open, blinding you. You can feel something moving in the light, and when you can see again you find out what it is — the five of you are surrounded by archers, their bows trained on you. 

“Inquisitor,” a voice accented in Orlesian rings out over the humming of the Fade rift, “what a pleasure. I wasn’t certain you’d be able to attend.” Florianne smiles down at him from the balcony above the courtyard, her hands resting delicately on the fence. “You’re such a challenge to read, I had no idea if you’d taken my bait.”

Cyris’s eyes narrow, “I fear I’m a bit busy at the moment if you were looking for a dance partner.” 

She chuckles dryly, “Yes, I see that.” All her movements seem wrong — far too delicate to belong to someone who’s about to murder six people in cold blood. “Such a pity you did not save one final dance for me. It was kind of you to walk into my trap so willingly; I was so tired of your meddling. Corypheus insisted that the Empress die tonight, and I would hate to disappoint him.” 

“At this point, I’d think disappointment was an old friend,” Cyris says, and you can see his knuckles turn white from how hard he’s gripping his staff. 

“You poor deluded thing. You don’t know half of what Samson and I have planned.”

The Fade rift cracks menacingly above as if to punctuate her words. 

“And now I suppose you never will.” 

The bow strings creak as the archers pull back. Florianne takes a step back from the balcony and smirks, “In their darkest dreams, no one imagines _I_ would assassinate Celene myself. All I need is you out of the ballroom long enough to strike. A pity you’ll miss the rest of the ball, Inquisitor. They’ll be talking about it for years.”

Florianne waves a hand and the Fade rift splits open, tendrils of green energy reaching out to the sky. “Kill him and bring me his marked hand. It will make a fine gift for the master.” 

“Florianne —“ Cyris yells, but she’s already disappeared back into the palace. 

“We need to hurry, Inquisitor!” Cassandra cuts down an archer before they have time to react, then rounds on the next before they can loose their arrow. 

The rest disappear. A shard of ice sails through where one had once been, embedding itself in the grass, and the courtyard goes silent. 

But you can still feel them. 

“Stay alert,” Cyris warns.

You cast your gaze around the courtyard, searching. You can sense their presence at the edge of your consciousness, but they aren’t close enough, aren’t slow enough for you to pin down exactly where they are. 

The scaffolding creaks in the wind and the weight of the Fade. That mercenary is still alive, you notice.

Something moves to your right and you lunge, pulling a blonde archer from the shadows and slamming them to the ground. They try to roll to their feet. You wrench the dagger from their belt and plunge it into their chest. They stop moving. 

And then everything descends into chaos. 

The Fade rift sparks and the demons pull themselves into the world, remnants of the Fade dripping off of them like water. You count five: a rage demon, two of those mantis demons, a wraith, and a despair demon. 

You scramble to your feet. The archers have reappeared on the sidelines, thinking that the demons will shield them, but they’re wrong — the demons aren’t bound, they attack anything that moves, and they’re turning on the archers, too. 

“Shit!” An archer barely manages to dodge the swipe of the mantis demon. They roll to the side and loose an arrow, but it only enrages the demon more. 

It’s so shocking, you can barely move — did Florianne really set up her own people to die? Didn’t she expect this to happen?

A bolt of lightning strikes the heart of the mantis demon. It convulses and stumbles, shrieking. The archer looks horrified. 

“Move!” Cyris shoves the archer out of the way and thrusts the blade of his staff into the demon’s heart. It rears back before disappearing in a flash of green. 

The archer scrambles backward away from the fight, their bow long forgotten on the ground. They catch your eye and their face goes pale. 

You almost want to reassure them, but then —

“Tabris, look out!”

You look up. The rage demon lunges at you. 

_SHIT!_

You move a second too late and it grabs you, burning through the sleeve of your jacket and to the skin. You scream. The demon doesn’t budge. 

Ice! Ice ice ice ice ice! A wave of ice bursts out of you, coating the rage demon completely. It bubbles and writhes as it freezes, trying to melt away the magic, but it doesn’t work. It's hand breaks off when you tear your arm away. 

“Fuck,” you hiss. The burn is mottled white and bloody red, covering most of your forearm. It doesn’t hurt. That somehow makes it worse.

Now you’re pissed. 

The hunk of ice sinks back into the ground, taking the demon with it, and the Fade rift is crackling and bursting again. You have no time to heal yourself before another wave of demons is pouring out. 

Two mantis demons and two rage demons.

The last archer scrambles up the scaffolding and disappears.

You channel your mana and aim it at the group of demons. It manifests in the middle of the courtyard, rising up and spreading out until it consumes the monsters in a thick blizzard.

The demons shriek and writhe. The mantis try to get out, but the ice coating their limbs steals away their movement. The rage demons do better — their heat helps keep the ice from freezing them entirely, but they’re still slowing down. 

The spell only lasts a few seconds. Once the wall of white dissipates, the mantis have been frozen completely. Dorian shatters them with a burst of energy. 

The rage demons bubble and groan, dragging themselves across the ground. The ice is still coating them. 

Cassandra shatters one and Vivienne freezes the other completely. The shards of ice sink back into the ground. 

The rift crackles and splits. Cyris raises his hand and it connects, a loud popping sound filling the air. He pulls and the link snaps, closing the breach.

Everyone takes a few moments to catch their breaths. 

“Is everyone alright,” Vivienne asks. 

“Just some cuts,” Cyris says.

“I don’t think we’ll have any time to relax,” Dorian says, “Florianne seemed to be quite keen on killing the Empress as soon as possible.” 

You place your hand on the burn and wince as magic flows into it. “We should talk to that mercenary,” you say, jerking your head. 

The four of them look at the mercenary, still bound and gagged and completely untouched. 

“Not a scratch. He’s a lucky one,” Dorian says, grinning. 

Cyris kneels down near the mercenary and unties him. 

“Andraste’s tits,” is the first thing he says, and you snort, “What’s all that? Were those demons? There aren’t any more blasted demons coming, right?”

Cyris helps the man to his feet, “No more demons. It’s safe.”

The mercenary shakes his head and looks around the courtyard like he can’t believe it. “Maker,” he says, “I’ve never seen one that close before. I knew Gaspard was a bastard, but I didn’t think he’d feed me to fucking horrors over a damn bill.”

Cyris tilts his head, frowning, “Duke Gaspard lured you out here?”

“Well, his sister,” the mercenary says, then quickly adds, “but it had to come from him, didn’t it? All that garbage she was spewing doesn’t mean anything. Gaspard had to be the mastermind.”

Gaspard’s an asshole, but you don’t think he’s asshole enough to team up with Corypheus. 

“Your accent sounds Ferelden. I thought you were one of Gaspard’s mercenaries,” Cyris says. 

“Born and raised in Denerim. Seems like I should have stayed there. The Duke wanted to move on the palace tonight, but he didn’t have enough fancy _chevaliers_ ,” the mercenary spits the last word, “so he hired me and my men. He had to offer us triple our usual pay to come to Orlais.” He casts another glance around the courtyard and mumbles, “Stinking pony cheesemongers.” 

Cyris looks shocked, like he can’t believe Gaspard is _this_ much of a dick. “He’s going to attack tonight? What about the peace talks?”

The mercenary scoffs, “Nobles don’t give a shit about honor and conduct unless it suits them. He’ll do what it takes to claim the throne.”

“Impressively ruthless of Gaspard, if not predictable,” Cassandra says, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. 

“You saved my life. I owe you,” the mercenary says, “and Gaspard still hasn’t paid me. You want me to talk to the Empress of the court or sing a blasted song in the Chantry, I’ll do it."

The mercenary leaves before Cyris can say anything else. You hope he’s heading back to the ballroom. No one says anything.

“We need to get back to the ballroom and ruin Florianne’s day,” you tell them. 

You wander through more winding hallways and large rooms. How many people live in this damn castle? It’s large enough to fit the entirety of Skyhold and _then some._

“I suspect the Lady Ambassador will not be pleased,” Vivienne says, eyeing everyone’s bloody armor.

“I think it’ll blow over once we save the Empress of Orlais,” Cyris says, amused. 

Vivienne smiles, “You underestimate the importance of appearance, my dear.” 

“Orlais is a ridiculous country,” Cassandra says. 

Slowly, the scaffolding and broken tile are replaced with pristine walls and statues. You pass through a larger courtyard with decorative bushes and fountains and beautiful flowers, most of which is marred by the dead bodies you find.

This party is going to have one hell of a cleanup.

A group of Venatori ambushes you in a small sitting room, but you take them out with little trouble.

You’re a little surprised; you had thought Celene was more “in the know” than this. How is she not aware of all the Venatori and dead bodies? Surely Briala would have told her.

Eventually, you come to the door that leads back into the ballroom. 

Cyris enters first, his staff still clutched in his hand, and you can _see_ the shock and anger on Florianne’s face when her eyes land on him. It’s a welcome sight.

“Thank the Maker you’re back,” Cullen approaches Cyris and doesn’t seem too surprised by the state of him, “The Empress will begin her speech soon. What should we do?”

“The Grand Duchess is the assassin,” Cyris says, his voice low, “Don’t let her anywhere near the Empress.”

“The Duchess,” Cullen repeats, eyes wide, “At once, Inquisitor!”

A masked man that you recognize as the one who announced all the guests steps onto the balcony where Celene once was. “Let all gathered attend,” he says, his voice ringing out across the room, “Her Imperial Majesty will now address the court!” He steps away and Celene replaces him. 

“Lords and Ladies,” she begins, and the room quiets immediately, “as a nation we mourn our sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, friends and lovers claimed by war. The sky is torn open, our Divine is dead, and many fear the end of all things comes upon us.” 

You watch as Inquisition soldiers mix into the crowd. Cyris leaves the four of you behind to speak with Cullen. 

“Orlais must stand as a bastion, a bulwark behind which all Thedas may take shelter. So has it stood for a thousand years! So shall it ever stand.”

Soft applause echoes through the room. You see Florianne moving to her place behind a pillar, waiting for Celene to call her on stage. 

“This would not have been possible without the efforts of many,” the applause dies down and Celene gestures toward Florianne, “Dear cousin, please step forward.”

Cyris pushes through the crowd and you see Florianne reach for something. “Grand Duchess, stand down!” 

An Inquisition soldier shoves Celene behind him and rushes forward, sword drawn. A hidden dagger appears in Florianne’s palm. One, two, three, four — all the soldiers surrounding Florianne fall to the ground, dead.

“Now,” Florianne yells. 

The harlequins appear. Many Inquisition soldiers fall before they have a chance to realize what’s happening. 

“For Corypheus, kill them all!”

The nobles stampede to the doors, but they’ve all been locked. The chaos makes it difficult for the soldiers to keep the harlequins from them — you see a few nobles hit the ground bloody.

Cyris pushes through the horrified crowd. Cassandra, Vivienne, and Dorian rush to follow, and Florianne disappears over the back balcony into the courtyard below.

You flatten against the wall before the nobles run you over. Shit. 

“Shit,” you say aloud for good measure.

Most of the fighting is in the lowered ballroom. You see harlequins striking out at the nobles rushing passed them and the body count is rising. The inquisition soldiers are doing their best, but it's difficult to protect the nobles from people that can disappear and reappear at whim. You have to help. 

Once it's clear, you run forward, plant your foot on the banister, and jump.  The harlequin you land on collapses with a sickening _crack._ You pluck their fallen dagger from the floor and stick it between another harlequin’s eyes. 

More turn on you. 

You spear one in the chest.

Another appears at your back. You spin and catch their blade with your arm and it digs deep, but you ignore the pain. Ice forms around your hand and you plunge it into their side. They hit the ground. 

A soldier goes down beside you. The killer dodges your shard of ice and charges. You back away, but your foot catches the carpet and you stumble. They press their advantage, keeping you off-balance, but their blade never quite makes its mark. 

You encase your arm in ice and raise it, catching their blade, and the hit bounces off. You kick them in the chest. They hiss something in French — shit, Orlesian — and stumble back. You lunge forward and rip their throat out. 

The harlequins are starting to turn on the soldiers now, winking in and out of existence in an effort to confuse them. 

Cullen shouts something above the noise. 

More and more of are falling — their disappearing act does little to help, only delays the inevitable, and without a leader, they don’t know what to do. You see the remaining draw back towards the exit. 

The soldiers press forward, pushing them further and further from the gathering of nobles. Once the harlequins realize how futile the fight is, they fully retreat.

So much for Corypheus’s plan.

The room is silent. 

No one is certain if the assassins are truly gone — they stand ready, their eyes flashing across the room. 

Movement towards the front of the ballroom draws your eye. Celene approached the banister, her face carefully blank, flanked by two guards. You’re glad to see this wasn’t all in vain. 

“Our enemies have been vanquished,” she announces. The crowd begins to cheer. You watch her lean over to the guards. They run off seconds later.

The doors are pulled open and the nobles pour out, still frantic, while soldiers and servants try to get in. The few that squeeze through run to the corpses and the injured and start to take them some place else. The servants clean the blood from the floor. 

It’s all surreal. You’d expect someone to cancel the ball and say “come back tomorrow!” if this sort of shit happened, but maybe this is just how Orlais is. 

“Tabris!”

To your surprise, it’s Josephine that’s rushing toward you. She looks ruffled but uninjured. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” you say. 

She points to your arm, “You’re bleeding.” 

Oh! You’d almost forgot. “Crap,” you say, and untie the cloth belt from around your waist. 

“Here, let me help,” Josephine says. 

“No, I got it —“

“Tabris,” she says like a warning, and you pause. She leads you to a cushioned bench on the raised ballroom and sits you down.  


“You know I’m a healer, right?” You let her wrap the cloth around your arm. 

“And yet you’re content with letting yourself bleed all over the floor,” she says. “If you aren’t going to heal yourself I will drag you to someone who will.” 

You frown. “I’d rather not waste magic on something small.”

Josephine sighs. “Take care of yourself, Tabris,” she says, and pulls the cloth tight, “you are just as important as the Inquisitor and the other members of our inner circle."

You decide to change the subject. “What happens now?”

“The Empress is meeting with the Inquisitor, I assume,” Josephine replies, “I hope it goes well.” 

“I’m sure it will.” 

Josephine ties the cloth and pats it once as if to let you know she’s done. Then she sits back and looks out over the ballroom. “Orlesians know how to throw the most interesting parties,” she says. 

You smile. 

She stands, “Take care, Tabris,” she says, and then disappears back into the crowd. 

Maker, you hope the ball ends soon.

“Lords and ladies of the court, we are pleased to announce that an accord has been reached. Our cousin Gaspard will now hold a place of honor in our cabinet.”

Gasps and cries of disapproval fill the room. You push yourself off the bench and move to the banister so you can see Celene. 

She raises her hand and the crowd quiets, and then Gaspard steps in front of her. “Friends, we assembled are the leaders of the empire,” he begins, and Celene steps out from behind him, “we must set the example for all of Thedas. We cannot be at war with each other while the Fade itself challenges our borders.”

“We must stand united or surely we will fall alone,” Celene says. 

Cyris steps forward, even with the other two, and says, “We will save Thedas from calamity, but only together may we accomplish this.”

“We will heal our wounded country,” she declares, “a long road of reconstruction lies before us. But tonight, we will celebrate the arrival of peace. Let the festivities commence!” 

>><<

 

It’s an hour later and the ball is still in full swing. 

You shut the balcony doors and sigh. Why do you have to stay here so long? Can’t you leave? You’ve already saved the empress! 

You sit down on the floor and let your head fall against the bench. 

The assassination attempt doesn’t seem to have put a damper on things because the nobles are just as drunk as they were before. Death must be an everyday thing for the Orlesian nobility. 

Your burn throbs. 

“Fucking hell,” you mutter, scowling. You’ve already healed the damn thing as much as you can — what more does it want from you?

The doors crack open and you’re worried that some drunk nobles are about to fall in and give you a front-row seat to a show you definitely do _not_ want to see, but then whoever it is slips in and you see it’s just Cullen. 

“Not enjoying the party,” you ask, and he jumps.  


“Tabris,” he shuts the door behind him, “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Then I’m doing a good job.” 

Cullen sighs and sits down on the bench across from you. “The nobles are relentless — they won’t stop mentioning how ‘brave’ I am. It’s ridiculous.” 

“Just look on the bright side, Cullen,” you say, “you could walk away a married man by the end of the night.”

He groans, “Maker’s breath, I hope not.” 

“To be fair, I’m sure you could do anything and the nobles would obsess over it,” you say and then, in your most haughty voice, “Oh, Commander, the way you hold that wine glass is just _divine_ , please let me bear your children!”

He groans again, this one long and muffled, like he’s buried his head in his hands. “Maker, _no._ ” 

You cackle. “You’re going to get so many love letters, I’m almost jealous.”

“You can have them,” he says.

You raise your head to look at him and grin, “At least the party is almost over,” you say.

“Thank the Maker.” 

“I’d suggest rejecting them outright, but that might make them want you more,” you say, “forbidden fruit and all that.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, “I don’t think Josephine would be too happy if I insulted a noble.” 

You smirk at him, “A noble? Mad at you? One look at that perfect face and they’ll be head over heels again.”

“Maker’s breath, you’re just as bad as Dorian.”

You lay your head back down on the bench, “Alright, alright, I’ll stop."

The muffled sound of the party carries through the closed doors. Your burn brushes against the stone and you wince, pulling it to your chest too quickly. 

“Are you alright,” you hear Cullen ask. 

You sit up, “Yeah, I just burned myself.”

“How badly?”

“Not bad,” you say, “I already healed it, it’s fine.”

Cullen pushes himself to his feet and kneels down in front of you, “Let me see it.”

You blink at him, “What? No! I’m fine!”

He stares at you.

Begrudgingly, you show him your arm.

“Tabris,” he says with a sigh, and boy are you getting tired of people saying your name like that, “why haven’t you bandaged this?"   


“I _already_ healed it,” you repeat. 

“You need to bandage it,” he says, “do you want it to get infected?”

“I didn’t have time,” you protest. 

“Didn’t have…“ Now he’s frowning at you. Great. Are you about to get lectured again? “Come on,” he pulls you to your feet, “you need to get this taken care of.”

“What? No, I’m —" 

“I’m not above smacking your burn to prove you wrong,” he says. 

Just the thought of that makes pain shoot up your arm. You deflate and he lets you go. “Fine, let’s get this over with.” 

The full sound of the party washing over you is almost enough to make you accept that smack and hide in the balcony for the rest of the night. Cullen weaves through the nobles, occasionally being forced to greet the ones who are obsessed with him. It takes a few minutes and too many nobles to count before you’re finally exiting the front gates of the palace.

“Where are we going,” you ask. 

“There are supplies in the carriages,” he says. “We wanted to be safe — we weren’t sure what we were going to walk into.” 

“Ah.”

The carriages have been parked outside the perimeter of the palace gates. A group of guards stand near them, talking. When one of them sees Cullen approach, he smacks the one next to him and salutes. 

“Stand down,” Cullen says. The guards relax. 

“Oh, if only the nobles could see this,” you say, and he glares back at you. 

“Should we ready the carriages, Ser,” one of the guards asks. 

“You’re fine, thanks,” you tell the guards. They look at you oddly, and you realize they were probably talking to Cullen. Damnit. 

He doesn’t respond, though. He opens up a compartment on the back of the carriage and starts rifling through whatever it is that’s in there. “Take this,” he says and hands you a bundle of gauze and a jar of some sort of paste. 

“I don’t think burn cream is good for 3rd-degree burns,” you say, inspecting the paste skeptically. 

“It is if you don’t want it to get infected.” He closes the compartment and turns back to you, “Sit.” 

You sit down on the carriage steps, “I can just heal the infection away.”

He smiles sardonically and takes the supplies. “If you want to do it the hard way.”

Not really. You offer your arm and try not to think about what’s about to happen. Maker, why can’t you heal everything immediately? Stupid magic. This is not what you signed up for —

The paste feels cool on your burn and you hiss, jerking your arm away before you can stop yourself, but he holds it steady. 

“How did this even happen,” Cullen asks. 

“A rage demon,” you say, trying hard to keep the wince out of your voice. 

He looks up at you, “When did you come across _that_?”

“Oh, Cyris must not have told you.” 

“No, he didn’t.”

You shift and look away, grateful for the chance to think about something else. “Florianne set a trap for us in one of the ten thousand courtyards this palace has. There was a fade rift,” you say, “a rage demon grabbed me before I could react.”

You feel pressure against the wound and you bite your lip.

Cullen finishes wrapping the bandage in silence and smooths the end down so it sticks. “I wonder how the Duchess even came to work for Corypheus,” he says.

“You’d think they’d go for Gaspard first,” you say. 

He hums in agreement and stands. “Alright, that should be good enough for now.” 

You smile, “And now you have to go back into the arms of your loving fans,” you say. 

“Don’t remind me,” he says and offers his hand. You take it and pull yourself up.    


“Thanks.”

“Try to take care of yourself, Tabris.”

You roll your eyes in mock annoyance, “It’s not like I haven’t gone without bandages before.” 

He frowns. “You don’t have to anymore,” he says. 

You blink. 

Cullen motions for you to follow, “Let’s head back.”


	15. and your eyes were filled with tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> double update bc this chapter is SUUUPER short!

** Needed: **

Survival: A How-To Guide

Or

That book you read in fifth grade about that kid who went into the forest and survived off the land and built his own shit.

You’ll take either. One is bound to help you out of this mess.

(And at least if fiction isn't practical, you won’t be dying of boredom)

Higher on the list is a rescue party, but after a lot of months of asking and no reply, you think you might need to lower your standards.

The forest is covered by a thick blanket of white, from the drooping canopy to the roots rising from the ground. You, in your stolen black cloak, are the only piece that stands out. This must be a picturesque scene, you think; something that would net a photographer a pretty penny if they were to snap it. Probably get on the front of National Geographic or Time or some other fancy magazine that you’ve never read. 

Snow crunches underneath your boots, the only sound in this desolate place. You’re thankful for the break in monotony, for the ability to hear something other than your own heartbeat. 

A gust of wind disturbs the settled snow.

When did you get used to the cold?

You walk through this snowy haze for a long time before you come across a hill. It is a large hill, one that rises so high above the trees that you cannot tell where it ends and the sky begins. You pause at the bottom and stare. You can’t climb that. Can you? 

A little black dot crests the hill before you find out.  Your heart speeds up. Are these more monsters come to kill you? The black dot — at least, you _think_ it comes from the black dot — makes a sound, like a shout, and then it begins to slide down toward you. 

A moment later, another appears. Then another. Then another. More and more until the top of the hill is outlined in black. 

You kick up snow in your attempt to scramble backward, but you only get a few feet away before you trip and fall on your ass. The black dots don’t falter. Your heart hammers against your chest and you think that dying of fright is not the best way to go. Magic tingles at your fingertips; you are seconds away from spell-ing them to death when —

The black dot closes in on you and — it's -- you --

“We’ve been looking for you,” is what they say, a smile on their familiar face, and your heart stops. “We’re here to take you home.” 

You can’t speak. You _know_ them. 

“We’ve missed you.”

Home.

They pull you into their chest and wrap their arms tight around you. They feel warm. 

“You’re safe.”

You bury your face in their chest. 

You’re going home. 


	16. i know i should've never looked back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was a double update, so make sure you go back and check chapter 15 before you read this one!

When you wake, you shatter the mirror in your room. 

Mila finds you sitting amongst the broken glass, hands bloody and eyes unfocused. You don’t even notice she’s there until she’s wrapping your hands in an old shirt and dragging you to the healer’s tent. She ignores your protests that you can “heal your own fucking self”. 

The tent itself is empty, save for an unconscious patient and the healer. Mila sits you down on one of the cots and stands back, looking nervous. 

“You’re lucky,” the healer says as he examines your hands, but you aren’t really listening. “Any deeper and these cuts could have caused some serious damage. 

You don’t say anything. 

“Tabris,” Mila begins, and you wonder how she still has hands with how much she’s been wringing them, “what happened?”

“The mirror broke.” 

The magic stings when it enters your cuts. Mila takes the hint or at least has enough sense not to push the subject in public and says nothing. The bleeding stops, but most of the cuts stay open. You wonder how many will scar. 

The healer rubs some paste that makes your hands burn and then bandages them up. “Change them when they get too dirty or when the blood seeps through,” he tells you. 

“I _know_ how to heal things, thanks,” you snarl at him. 

The walk back to your room is quiet. 

You hide your hands in your armpits, for once thankful for the never-ending cold. Mila doesn’t look at you. It starts to dawn on you what you’ve done — how are you going to hide this? Everyone will see it. The lack of sleep is easy to disguise, but this… You scowl. Sera is going to bother you until you tell her and then she’ll probably yell at you; Cullen will probably lecture you and make you feel awful; and who knows what the Inquisitor will do. 

Fuck. 

You don’t want people to know about this. 

When you get back to your room, you half expect Mila to leave, but she doesn’t; she pushes into your room and starts cleaning the floor before you can say anything. Part of you feels bad, but the rest is too exhausted to care.

You stand at the open door and watch. 

“I know it might be difficult to talk about,” she begins, pausing on a large piece of glass, “but, please, Tabris, tell me what happened.”

You say nothing. 

She turns and looks back at you, her eyes rimmed red and glassy with tears. “Please.”

You grimace and look away.

Mila sighs and puts her back to you. For a long time, all you hear is the _clink_ of glass as she cleans. 

How long has it been since you’ve dreamt of home?

In the forest, you had forced yourself to forget; remembering only made it harder to survive, harder to move on. Why bother thinking about something you’d probably never see again?

That had been years ago and — wow, years? It doesn’t feel that long, looking back. More like a haze of trees and snow. 

You really brought this on yourself. 

Repressing your memories is bad, you’re pretty sure you read that somewhere, and that’s exactly what you did — you forced yourself to forget where you came from and you never really dealt with not being able to go back. Now you have nightmares making you face that fact. 

As if your nights weren’t already bad enough. 

“You can tell me, Tabris, I won’t judge you,” her voice pulls you back to the present, to the sound of glass scraping against the floor. “I’m your friend. That is what friends are for.”

For a split second, you consider it. “Maybe later,” you lie. 

She finishes gathering the shards of glass in a cloth bag and stands, finally turning to face you. Her eyes are still red. For some reason, that makes you mad. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have breakfast together,” she says, “Perhaps tomorrow?”

You shrug. “Sure.” 

She smiles and pats your shoulder before she leaves. The door closes softly behind her. 

You barely make it to your bed before you start sobbing. 


	17. i had a name but they took it from me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! hope you've had some happy holidays and a great new year! i'd like to give a s/o to my beta reader, thank you so much for your help!
> 
> (and thank you guys for all the comments and kudos!)

**** The library is so empty it feels as if you’ve stepped into a place out of time. It’s wrong — this place should always be buzzing, always have someone perusing the bookshelves or huddled in the corner. The torches left burning crackle loudly in the stillness. 

You pause by the chair Dorian’s had brought up, your eyes lingering on the books piled on the floor. You wonder how many he’s read. 

Maybe it’s the longing for something that once brought peace that’s carried your feet here; you remember staying up all night to finish a story, the joy of allowing yourself to be sucked into a world not your own, how, for just a little bit, you forgot the real life around you. 

The loss of it stings more than you care to admit. 

Between the two bookshelves, and just above Dorian’s chair, is what must be the only window in this part of the Rotunda. It’s small and covered in ornamental grating, but some light of the moon still manages to shine through, illuminating your feet and the small space of floor around you. It would make good light for reading, were you able to do so. 

You heave a sigh. Sitting would be nice, you think; maybe just relax and smell the dusty books. The crackling of the fire is calming. The chair seems soft. 

A muffled sort of clatter makes you turn your head so fast you nearly tweak your neck. You peak around bookshelves, magic ready, until you find Cole crouched in front of a pile of books, sorting through them single-mindedly. 

“Cole?” He doesn’t startle. He probably already knew you were there. 

You step closer and try to peer over his shoulder, but his hat makes it difficult to see. “What are you doing?”

“The words leap off the pages like pictures,” is what he says in that peculiar way of his, “it isn’t the same without her voice, but it helps.”

“Ah.” 

He continues to sift through the pile. You wonder if he knows exactly what he’s looking for, if his connection to the Fade allows him to see those sorts of things, too. 

“Cole,” you begin, feeling nervous, “could I ask you something?”

“Real but not, hope snatched away at the last moment,” his hat bobs and you think he’s looked up from his search, “you want to go back, but can’t. The dreams won’t leave.”

You don’t know why you’ve suddenly thought of this — it’s a dumb idea. Dumb, dumb, _dumb_ idea, and one he definitely won’t be able to help with. 

Still… you have to ask. 

“Could you make me forget?”

He turns to you, eyes wide underneath the brim of his large hat. “About the dreams?”

They’d come back eventually; you need something more permanent. “About the forest,” you say.

“I’m sorry,” Cole says immediately, like he’s already thought about this, “I can’t.”

The bitter laugh that bubbles out surprises you, “Of _course_ you can’t.”

He looks hurt and shakes his head, face dropping until he’s hidden by his hat. “The hurt is too deep, too raw,” he explains hurriedly, “roots around your heart, too tight to beat or breath or cut away.”

“Is there anything you can do?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. “…maybe,” he says quietly, “I could try.”

Abruptly, Cole is in front of you. “The dreams,” he says, ominously, and the way his eyes shine bright in the darkness makes your heart stutter in fear, “forgetting is easy, like waking and slipping away the harder you think. I can do that.” You’ve never noticed how much of a spirit he seems until now.

“Do it.”

Nothing happens.

Literally. Nothing. 

You stand there staring at him, expecting to feel like someone is rooting around in there or at the least to look at your hands and wonder _why?,_ but there’s _nothing_.   
  
“Is that it,” you ask, frowning.

“You… shouldn’t remember,” he whispers. 

You do, though. The dream replays in front of your eyes. “It’s okay, Cole. You tried.”

“But you _shouldn’t_ ,” Cole insists, and he seems unnerved. 

_Typical,_ you think. _Why would anything ever be easy for me?_ “Thanks for trying,” you say. 

“Solas could help,” he says, and that piques your interest.

“He could make me forget?” 

He shakes his head. “No. This is… different. But so is Solas.”

Cryptic! Lovely. You nod and leave it; you’re too tired to try to make sense of whatever it is he’s getting at. It makes sense, at the very least — Solas _is_ the Dread Wolf, so he knows some stuff about the Fade. “Thanks, Cole,” you say again, but he’s already gone back to the pile of books. Sometimes you think he likes making people wonder. 

You watch him until the disappointment ebbs away and you can leave. 

 

 


	18. it's a long night can i spend it with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> all aboard the fluff train, my dudes. we're hitting it. 
> 
> also! i am 100% absolutely shamelessly promoting that it is my bday on march 27th!!! so happy bday to me!!!
> 
> as always, thank you for reading!

The kitchen is strangely bare; more like a storage area than anything else, with sacks and boxes piled against the walls, ingredients stacked on the large island, raw meat on the one wooden countertop. It’s like the walk-in pantry very rich people sometimes have in their homes, the ones just off the kitchens furnished with beautiful lacquered cabinets and the latest in stainless steel appliances. 

But this is not a storage area — it is the kitchen in all it’s medieval glory, sporting two charcoal ovens and a fireplace and a sink. You flick one of the pans hanging from the ceiling and frown as it swings.

Sleep isn't going to come easily to you tonight, especially not after your talk with Cole -- your mind is running, going over questions and theories and calculating how long it will be before Solas gets back from wherever it is he and the Inquisitor have gone. Given that it's a little past midnight, there isn't much to do or many people to bother, and so you decide to indulge in something you haven't thought about in quite some time. 

You clear a spot on the island and slap down a piece of paper. Reading or writing whatever bullshit language this world has may not be something you can do, but you _can_ write English. 

(Thank _fuck._ ) 

So, on a stolen piece of parchment, you write a list: 

2 cups + 2 tablespoons flour

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

2 tsp cornstarch 

1.5 sticks butter

1 cup brown sugar

1/2 cup sugar

2 eggs

2 tsp vanilla

chocolate chips

You triple check for any missing ingredients or miscalculated measurements, but eventually decide what you have is as good as it’ll get. 

After that comes the tricky part: you dig through sacks and you dig through boxes, trying to find everything you’ll need. It doesn’t help that you can’t tell anything by sight or consistency — flour and baking soda look the same, so do salt and sugar, and you can’t read any of the labels. You’re forced into your own personal hell where you have to taste everything. 

Note to anyone listening: raw flour tastes like shit. 

But, in the end, you manage to line up everything (including what you think is cornstarch) on the wooden island. You portion the flour, baking soda, (hopefully) cornstarch, and salt into one bowl, praying you’ve gotten the measurements correct — how can anyone do this without measuring cups? — and then the sugars and butter into a second bowl. 

When you start to stir the second bowl, another question pops into your head: how can anyone do this without a mixer? 

“Good fucking maker,” you hiss, your grip slick on the spoon. 

Who would’ve thought stirring counted as a strenuous activity? You raise your hand to your face and frown, light dancing across the now bloody bandages. This’ll be a joy to explain to the kitchen staff! You try switching hands, but the same thing happens and even more blood stains the wooden spoon. You set the bowl on the counter and both your hands glow softly, skin knitting itself back together, undoing whatever damage you’d just done, but it only lasts a few seconds — soon enough you’re dizzy, room spinning and colors dancing and sound garbling until it’s static. The magic stops. 

“Too much magic,” you explain to the room, leaning heavily against the counter. The fireplace crackles and spits in response.

The door opens. 

You jerk and your elbow strikes the bowl and you scramble to keep it from tipping off the counter. An escape plan is forming in your mind: blind them with a light spell and _run._ They’ll never see it coming! But you’ve only just balanced the bowl and the door is open and who else would be standing there but Cullen. 

“Tabris?”

You freeze. 

“What are you doing?” He sounds confused.

“Uh, I, I’m,” you straighten and try to look casual, “I was trying to make cookies.” 

“In the middle of the night?”

“Yes.”

You stare at each other for a few seconds before something occurs to you: “Wait, why are _you_ here?” 

He’s quiet for a moment. “I was… getting something.”

This is awkward. You aren’t sure why — this is, like, a normal _thing,_ after all, people get midnight snacks all the time — and yet both of you seem to be so fucking embarrassed. 

Cullen takes a step back, “I should —“

“Could you help me?” You pick up the wooden bowl and hold it out to him, “I need help stirring, I hurt my hands.”

That makes him pause. “You hurt your hands,” he repeats. 

You lower the bowl a fraction and glare at him, but you’re not sure he can see it in the darkness, “I cut them on some broken glass, okay? Are you gonna help me or not?” 

Cullen sighs and closes the door and immediately you feel bad for snapping. 

“You don’t have to,” you begin, but he shakes his head and takes the bowl from you.

“You want me to stir,” he asks. 

You nod. 

He doesn’t notice the blood. You breathe a sigh of relief; that hadn’t been a lecture you were interested in having. He stirs a little too hard, you can see the dough getting too much air, but you don’t mind. “Why exactly are you making cookies in the middle of the night?”

You lean against the island and shrug. 

“You know, you don’t quite strike me as the baking type.”

You crack the first egg into the bowl, “I like to make cookies,” you say, “I made bread once, but it’s too much work.” 

Cullen hums in response. You crack the second egg and toss the eggshells into the fireplace. 

“Have you baked before?”

“Once, before I joined the Order,” he replies, and you reach for the vanilla while he’s paused. “After that… the Chantry doesn’t see much point in teaching us domestics.”

“No market for a baking Templar?”

He chuckles. “Evidently not.” 

You pour the vanilla into the bowl. The dough is too light — you’ve always had difficulty getting your cookies the right color, and apparently this time is no exception. “There is now,” you say and, ah well, they’ll still taste good, “now I know who to go to when I need help stirring.”  


“I look forward to it,” he says, “this is a welcome distraction from my duties, I must admit.”

Pouring the flour mixture into the bowl is suddenly _very_ interesting. You ignore the funny way your stomach feels. “So, uh, how’s it going,” you ask, “y’know, with life and shit.” 

“Fine, thank you,” he says, and it sounds like he’s amused, but it also sounds practiced. “The Inquisitor should be returning in a few days time. Apparently, they managed to put a stop to the scuffles in the Exalted Plains. I’m sure Celene’s re-strengthened claim to the throne and the Inquisition’s part in it helped, but —“  


“No,” you look at him and frown, “I meant, like, with you. Specifically. How are _you_ doing?” 

Cullen blinks and his stirring slows for a moment. “Oh.” 

You tear your eyes away and dump the last of the flour. His stirring picks back up and the dough hardens to the perfect consistency. It looks delicious if you do say so yourself, and all that remains is the final touch: chocolate chips! It had been pure luck the kitchen had these, as you’re certain they’re a delicacy. You start to add them to the bowl as the silence stretches on.

“I’m… well,” he says eventually. 

“And you’ll be even better when you taste my delicious chocolate chip cookies,” you say, fixing him your cheesiest smile.  


He smirks back, “I wouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch, Tabris.”

You cluck your tongue and take the bowl from him. “Don’t underestimate my cooking abilities, Rutherford.” You shape the dough into little balls and plop them on the metal sheets you’d so conveniently found lying around until all the dough is gone and all four sheets are filled. You fit one sheet into each oven and step back. 

“Quite a lot of cookies,” Cullen says. 

“I’ll have to hand them out,” you say. Would the battlement guards like them? Maker knows they could use something nice to keep them from dying of boredom. 

“A shame Solas is away,” he says, leaning against the counter, “I hear he enjoys sweets.”

You snort. Yeah, a shame. You sit on the edge of the island and swing your legs, staring blankly at the ovens.

The silence stretches passed the replacement of the sheets with unbaked sheets and cleaning up the ingredients you no longer need. Cullen tries to help, but you bat him away, instead pointing towards the cooled cookies and the large bowl next to them. You’re a little paranoid that the kitchen people are going to _know_ it was you that used all these ingredients without asking — getting yelled at by people is not something you want. Plus, you have the sneaking suspicion that no one knows you work closely with the Inquisitor and getting yelled at by people who think you’re just a _filthy knife-ear_ is _definitely_ not something you want.

You put everything back exactly as you found it and try to scrub the blood out of the spoon handle. Some of it flakes off, but the wood is still stained. You hurriedly hide it in one of the boxes and hope no one finds it. 

Cullen is still putting the cookies into the bowl. You notice that he’s pulled out the other two sheets — he must have done it when you were busy cleaning.

“Have you tried one yet,” you ask, coming up beside him to look at the large pile. 

“Not yet,” he says. 

You take a cookie from the bowl and bite into it. It’s good. Not as good as the ones you usually make but, for your first try without any modern equipment, you’d say it’s a success. “Try one,” you say, “tell me what you think.” 

Cullen picks one of the smaller ones from the top of the pile. 

You wait with bated breath. If he doesn’t like them, you don’t know what you’ll do — there’s no way you can eat all these cookies by yourself! You’d hate to have to throw them away. 

It feels weird to stare at him while he’s eating, but you want to _know._ You study his profile, waiting for the quick flash of disgust or disappointment, but his expression doesn’t shift. His eyebrows lift a fraction. You hope that’s a good sign?

“They’re very good,” he says after he’s finished chewing. He turns to you and it doesn’t look like he’s lying, “Some of the best I’ve had.”  


Your heart swells, “Really?” 

“Really.”

Fuck yeah! You pull a small bowl from underneath the island and brush out the inside to make sure there isn’t any dust or cobwebs. Every movement feels jerky, a little frantic, but it’s because of how _happy_ you are — you made cookies, and they’re good, and someone likes them, and after the six years you just lived through, it feels like a dream.

“Take as many as you like,” you tell him, and he doesn’t comment on the shaky quality your voice has taken on, “if you hadn’t shown up, these never would have been baked!” 

“What are you going to do with the rest of them,” Cullen asks, watching as you pile the cookies into his bowl. 

“I, I guess I’ll have to hand them out,” you say, “I think I’d die if I tried to eat them all myself.” 

“I’m sure the soldiers will be pleased about that,” he says. 

You fill the bowl almost completely and slide it to him. “Really, though, thanks,” you say, talking to the island more than him, “nights are… hard, for me. This helped.”

“Of course, Tabris. I…” he trails off, tapping his finger against the bowl, “If you ever need to talk, I happen to work late most nights.” 

You pick up your bowl of cookies while you think of a way to respond and then, before you can really think about what you’re saying, you say, “Same to you!” He blinks, taken aback by either the abruptness of the statement or the oddness of it, and you barrel on, “Leading the Inquisition against the fucking devil has got to be stressful, plus you’ve got the whole —“ you nearly mention the lyrium withdrawal before you catch yourself “— uh, thing going on and, I mean, I wouldn’t want to use you as my own personal therapist without offering anything in return, so if you ever need to, like, vent, I also have awful sleeping habits and.” You stop and inhale sharply and realize how fast you’re talking and how little sense you’re making. 

“You know what,” you say, “have a great night!” You turn on your heel and flee from the room before he can say anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taneleertivan.tumblr.com


	19. i taught you melodies, poems and rhymes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to thank you guys for the bday wishes and the comments! you all rock!
> 
> now i have a question for you: do you like gossip?
> 
> s/o again to my wonderful beta reader!

Last night made you realize two things: 1) you are an idiot, 2) you can never talk to Cullen again. Ever.

You just don’t _get it_ \-- why didn’t you say “okay, thanks!” and move on? Why did you try to be nice? You put your foot in your mouth so spectacularly that there is no way he doesn’t think you’re a weirdo. “And he’s not wrong,” you say, staring at your ceiling in despair.

The small sliver of outside you can see through your window is telling you that you ought to get up, but you’d rather never leave your room again. You drag your hand down your face and groan. No one has made any plans for today and even if they do, they’ll just send a messenger to get you -- you don’t _actually_ have to get up, you can wallow in your self-pity all day if you really want to. You could get some sleep. Maker knows you need it. You reach blindly into the bowl of cookies by your bed and eat one. The bowl is halfway empty.

Someone knocks on your door.

“Who is it?” You bolt upright, buttoning your shirt with fumbling fingers, hoping it’s not the Inquisitor or Cullen or a messenger.

“Mila,” the knocker says. You breathe a sigh of relief.

“Come in.”

The door opens and Mila steps inside, all smiles and grace. You have no idea how she manages to be so cheerful in the morning. “I came to see if you’d like to accompany me to breakfast this morning,” she says.

You lower the cookie you’d been eating, almost ashamed. “Uh, I’m not hungry,” you tell her. Her smile falters and immediately your stomach tightens with guilt. You gesture toward the bowl, “Would you like a cookie?”

She closes the door behind her and walks to peer into the bowl. “Sweets this early in the morning,” she asks, raising a brow at you, “and where did you get them?”

“I made them,” you say.

She takes one and holds it up like she’s inspecting it. “I never knew you baked, Tabris,” she says.

You should apologize. Mila had only been trying to help and you’d been such an ass. You cringe and look down at your lap, fidgeting with your blanket, wondering how you should approach this. You’ve never liked apologizing. You decide to rip it off like a bandage. “I’m sorry about the mirror thing,” you say.

“There is no need to apologize,” she says immediately, “I know how night terrors can be.”

“I was rude though,” you say, still not looking at her. “You were only trying to help and I was just… rude.”

You feel her place a hand on your shoulder and squeeze softly. “Thank you for your apology, Tabris, but really, there is no need. I understand,” she says, “and my offer still stands. If you’d like to tell me about your nightmare, I would gladly listen.”

“On one condition,” you say and finally look up at her. She watches you carefully, waiting. “Don’t ask me about anything.”

She sits down on the bed beside you and nods, “I promise.”

You do not mention your time in the woods or about you being from another universe. You feel she would not react well to the latter and you do not wish to speak of the former. In the end, there isn’t much to tell. “I was lost for a long, long time -- in the literal sense. My nightmare was about being rescued,” you say, “it felt so real, like my loved ones were really there.” You grip the blankets until your hands ache. “When I woke up, it was like a punch in the gut seeing it wasn’t true.”

The silence that descends makes your heart speed up. 

“I am sorry, Tabris,” Mila says eventually, “it is very hard to be separated from your loved ones. I’m… not quite sure what to say -- I must admit, I’m not the best at comforting people. But, if you ever need a shoulder to cry on or someone to talk to, you can always come to me.” She takes your hands and you finally look up at her, “even if it’s in the middle of the night, I’ll still be there for you.”

You pull one hand away to wipe the tears from your eyes. “Thank you,” you say, “it helped to get it off my chest.”

“Good,” she says, “then, would you like to get breakfast? You don’t have to eat since I see you’ve sated your sweet tooth.”

You calculate the probability that you might see Cullen there. It’s high. “Uh, actually I don’t think that’d be a real great idea.”

She cocks her head, “Why not?”

This is  _also_ not something you want to tell. You settle for a vague truth. “I'm avoiding someone,” you say.

“Oh? For no bad reason, I hope.”

You shake your head and lean back against the headboard, “No, I just did something embarrassing in front of them.”

“Really!” Mila leans back, a grin overtaking her face, “Do you have a crush, Tabris?”

“Absolutely not,” you snap back, but that only makes her grin wider. Her shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“If you say so,” she says, “but speaking of _crushes_ \-- have you heard who the Inquisitor has his eye on?” She leans towards you conspiratorially and drops her voice like you aren’t the only two in your room.

You can’t help but be intrigued. “Who?”

“That Cassandra Pentaghast,” she says, “you know, the gruff woman who’s always beating the training dummies? I think they said she was a Seeker before she became a part of the Inquisition.”

“Wasn’t she the Right Hand of the Divine,” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

“Yes,” she exclaims, smacking the bed like she’s had an epiphany, “that’s the one!”

“Where’d you hear this, anyways?”

“You won’t believe the things you hear in the Chantry,” she tells you and clucks her tongue, “I have heard so many rumors it is _ridiculous._ Did you know that the Tevinter mage is seeing that mercenary? Supposedly, of course, because you can’t trust most of what you hear. But isn’t that something!”

“It sure is,” you say.

“Soldiers have the most gossip, I swear,” she says, “most of it is just hearsay, but there is always a little piece of truth in it. You can never discount anything you hear.”

“Any other good rumors?”

Mila lays down on the bed and frowns, thinking. “Nothing particularly interesting,” she says, her black hair spread out around her head like a halo. She taps her foot against the bed. “Although, some people have been saying that Commander Cullen is sweet on someone.”

You don’t like the way your stomach drops at that. “Oh?”

“They won’t say who -- although, I’d bet you anything it was the Ambassador, they’d make  _such_ a lovely pair -- but apparently he's been seen with someone. Can you believe it?”

You take another cookie from the bowl and nibble on it, despite the weird feeling in your stomach. “Since when does hanging out equal being sweet on someone? People hang out all the time,” you argue.

Mila rolls her eyes and looks at you with a face that says you don’t understand. “Tabris, my dear, have you ever been sweet on someone? Oh, scratch that, actually, since you won’t answer me about your crush.”

For the record, you have had crushes before. That still doesn’t change the fact that talking to someone doesn’t automatically mean you like them. “I’m hanging out with you and I don’t like _you_ ,” you say.

She looks at you in mock horror, “Really! I thought we were friends.”

“We are.”

She waves a hand at you and looks back at the ceiling, “I see your point, though. _I’m_ not the one spreading the rumor, anyways, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. The soldiers will believe what the soldiers will believe.”

“Maybe they’re just spreading the rumor to make Cullen seem more approachable,” you say, “I think the recruits are scared of him.”

“And who wouldn’t be! He looks like he has a frown carved into his face,” she says, “like a statue!”

You laugh, “And that fur collar does make him look pretty intimidating.”

Mila props herself up on her elbow and pokes you in the ribs, “That is the first time I’ve heard you laugh, Tabris. It’s lovely, you ought to do it more often.”

You bat her hand away, rolling your eyes, and say, “And all because of poor Cullen.”

She lets out a long _hmmm_ before rolling off the bed and to her feet. “I hope you won’t hide in here all day,” she says, smoothing out the wrinkles that have appeared on her dress.

“It’s not like I have much else to do,” you say.

“You could always spend time with me,” she says, “or wander or whatever it is you do when the Inquisitor isn’t here.”

Now that you think of it, you should go to the armorer and see if your new armor came in. “I have some errands,” you say, and stand.

“Perfect! Do that,” Mila says, “and absolutely do not think about how you made a fool of yourself in front of someone you like.” You grimace at the reminder. “Who I will find out about! Mark my words, Tabris, I will find out who your crush is.”

“Assuming I have one,” you say.

She smirks at you and pats your shoulder soothingly, “Of course, of course. Anyways, I should be off to the Chantry. Have a lovely day, Tabris, and meet with me for breakfast tomorrow.”

You nod, “I will,” you say, “and you too.”

The walk to the Undercroft is uneventful. You aren’t sure what you expected; it’s not like Cullen ever leaves that damn tower except for war meetings. Unless you go looking for him, you’ll probably never fucking see him again, and that realization soothes your anxiety quite a bit. 

Harritt is banging away at some piece of metal when you step in. He doesn’t look up at you. “Hey, Harritt,” you say, a little unsure. When he looks at you, he’s scowling. 

“Finally come for your armor.” He sets the metal he’d been hammering aside and jerks his head toward a storage box on the opposite wall. “It’s over there. I’m not a storage center,” he says. 

“Sorry.” 

“I  _ told  _ you it would take a few weeks at most. How long has it been?” 

That sounds like a rhetorical question, but the silence stretches on when you don’t respond. You quickly calculate the time in your head. “Um… a month?”

“ _ Two months _ .” He folds his arms and his eyes narrow. “I am  _ not  _ a storage center,” he says again. 

You head over to the storage box and pull your set of armor out. You want to bite out an excuse, but settle for staying silent. There’s only so many times you can apologize for being a mild inconvenience. 

“Try it on,” you hear him say, “I want to make sure the fit is perfect.” 

You hide behind a stack of boxes and change into the armor. It’s fairly plan; everything -- fabric, metal, leather -- is pitch black and there isn’t much to it.  The top is leather that covers your neck and has no sleeves, just metal on your dominant arm that runs from your shoulder to the tips of your fingers. The single pauldron is small, rounded, and looks more like a capped sleeve than a piece of armor, and the gauntlets (he’s made one for each hand) make it look like you have claws. 

You flex your hands. The metal doesn’t catch and while your range is a little limited, it isn’t difficult to wear them. You imagine that the slight discomfort you feel now will disappear once you’ve been using them for awhile. 

The pants are a thicker fabric that fit nicely and keep the warmth in, which you’re sure will be great for when you have to go to Emprise Du Lion, and the boots are the perfect size. Harritt has also made a sash of fabric and a belt with pouches and slings and pockets. You also commissioned a new cloak. 

You step out from behind the storage boxes. “Looks good,” you hear him say, “how’s the fit?”

“It feels good,” you say, looking up at him as he walks toward you. He circles you once, leaning close to examine the leather and rub the shine back into the pauldron, then stops in front of you and nods. 

“If you break it or dent it, bring it here,” he says, “but don’t take two months next time.”

“Got ya.”  

He leaves.

You fix the cloak around your shoulders and head back to your room, where a small shape in front of your door makes you stop in your tracks. 

“Hello,” Kieran, Morrigan’s (potentially) scary old god baby, says. You stare at him.

“...Hello?”

“You’re the one who lives beside us,” he says and oh, maker, you live next to  _ Morrigan?  _ “You move around a lot.”

“Oh, sorry.  I don’t keep you up, do I? I didn’t know the walls were that thin,” you say. 

“No,” he shakes his head, “I can hear your blood.”

Oooookay! “Right, right, the whole old god baby thing, yeah,” you say, nodding, because it figures you’d get the creepy cryptic kid when you already aren’t good with normal children. “I’d try to quiet my blood but, uh. Can’t.”

“Mother says you’re strange,” he tells you. You have to admit, he looks pretty cute in his little doublet. “You don’t seem strange. I’ve met kind like you before.” 

“Oh? Like who?”

He looks a little sad, “There’s one here, but he won’t talk to me.”

You frown. Whoever that guy is, he sounds like an asshole. “Well, uh. He sounds mean.” 

“I’m glad you will talk to me,” he says, perking up, “It’s nice to speak to someone who knows.” 

“Kieran.”

You look up to see Morrigan walking up behind him. “You should get back to your studies, little one,” she says, placing a hand on his hair. She smiles when he looks up at her. 

“But mother,” he begins. 

“No buts,” she says, “you can speak to your friend later. For now, back to your room.” 

Kieran casts a disappointed look your way but does as he’s told. Once the door to their room is closed, Morrigan fixes her eyes on you, amused. “Ser Tabris,” she says, “I hope Kieran wasn’t bothering you.” 

You shake your head, “No, he wasn’t.” You feel like you ought to say something else, but you’re stuck so long on calling him either  _ polite  _ or  _ good  _ that you end up not saying anything at all. 

“I am glad,” she says. “I was curious of your soothsaying, if you wouldn’t mind a few questions.” 

Oh geez. Time to lie out of your ass. You keep your expression schooled, “Uh, yeah, that’s fine. Ask away.”

“‘Tis a rare ability. I’ve met only one other who had such a gift -- but they were possessed. Since your resident Templar Commander has not yet lopped off your head, I take it you are not.” 

“You think the Inquisition would turn down valuable intel just because they were getting it from someone who was possessed,” you ask. 

“‘Tis an unfortunate time for any who have arcane skill,” Morrigan says mildly, “the Inquisition, despite having a mage as it’s leader, is still an arm of the Chantry. I find it difficult to imagine the allowance of any sort of unclean magic.” 

That makes sense, sort of. The only reason no one is pitching a fit over apostates is because _every_ magic user is an apostate now. “I’m not possessed,” you tell her. 

“And yet you see the future,” she says, “how, I wonder?” 

“Wish I could tell you,” you say, “must be from spending so much time in the Wilds.” 

“Oh? I was unaware you spent time in the Wilds,” she says, but she doesn’t seem surprised. 

“Not by choice,” you say.

Morrigan hums in either agreement or thought, you can’t quite tell. She doesn’t say anything else about the Wilds. “It will be interesting working with you, Tabris,” she says, “and let me know if Kieran ever becomes a bother. He seems to have taken a liking to you.” She inclines her head and disappears back into her room.


	20. and then i can tell myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as always, comments and critiques are encouraged!
> 
> s/o to my beta reader as well!

Skyhold goes quiet when the Inquisitor is gone.

Most nobles (and refugees) plan visits around the likelihood of catching a glimpse of him -- they don’t particularly care about the hold itself or anyone else in the inner circle, and the refugee village at the base of the mountain has grown large enough to hold many of the amenities the refugees used to climb up for. If not for the constant guard rotation or the occasional servant, you’d think the Inquisition had up and moved away without telling you.

It’s nice.

You pause in front of a stall of books.  

Lack of visitors has left Merchant Row nearly empty. No nobles means no selling of luxury goods -- you’re happy about that, the jewelry merchants tend to get rather annoying; like you’re walking through the perfume department of a department store -- and no refugees means no selling general goods. No one in Skyhold needs weapons or armor -- thanks to Harritt -- nor healing items or any other apothecary goods, which leaves out a majority of merchants.

The handful of merchants that still post up shop mostly sell cheap trinkets, something that someone with a servant’s or soldier’s wage might be able to afford.

Like books.

“See something you’re interested in, Ser,” the bookseller asks, smiling kindly, after a minute or two of you staring at their wares.

Hm. The coin purse on your hip is heavy, feeling even heavier when you look at the books. You haven’t spent the meager amount you get for soothsaying -- there isn’t much you’re interested in purchasing. You know you can’t read. Still.  

“Yeah,” you say, and step closer, “is there any book you’d recommend?”

The bookseller sorts through a few stacks before pulling out a black book with gold filigree on the spine.  They hold it out so you can read the title. “This is a popular one,” they say, “it’s a tale of the Black Fox, a rogue and a thief known for his wondrous deeds. This particular story is about his journeys in Tevinter.”

You take the book from their hand and flip through the first few pages. The words are gibberish, looking more like runes than an actual language. You open your coin purse, “How much?”

 

>><<

 

Thedosian chess is… strange.

The board is an octagon -- you think? It definitely isn’t a square -- and the pieces consist of griffons, Chantry figures, dragons, and _nothing_ that you’ve ever seen before. It looks more like a Dungeons and Dragons map and you wonder how different it is from the chess you know. Do the similarities end with the name? It seems like it.

“Would you care to play the winner, Tabris?”

“You mean, would they care to play _me,_ ” Dorian interjects with a smug smile, “don’t pretend you could ever outplay me, Commander.” 

“Perish the thought,” Cullen says.

You look back to the board as Cullen moves one of his griffons forward several squares. “I don’t know how to play,” you admit after a moment.

“Really?” Dorian moves one of the Chantry figures diagonally, making you think it might be Thedas’ bishop equivalent. “Perhaps Cullen could teach you, since he’s so confident,” he says.

Cullen chuckles and sits back in his chair, surveying the board. “If only I had the time,” he says.

“I’m not good at strategy games,” you say. Probably not a good thing to admit considering you’re an advisor for the Inquisitor, but it’s too late to take it back. “My strategy is to be very strong and decimate my opponent, which doesn’t work in chess.”

Dorian laughs and says, “that strategy is called cheating, Tabris.” 

“Then they’d be much better suited learning from you, Dorian,” Cullen says.

“I resent the accusation, Commander.”  

You bite back a laugh and shake your head, “I’m fine just watching.”

“I can’t imagine chess is particularly interesting to spectate,” Dorian says. 

“I don’t have a particularly interesting life,” you deadpan.

Cullen laughs as he moves a piece that looks like a tower toward Dorian’s dragon, “I would hate to know what your version of an interesting life is, Tabris.”

“Killing corpses and demons is so passé, Cullen, didn’t you know?”

“After six years of it, it starts to get a little boring,” you say.

“At least sit down,” Dorian says and gestures to a chair pushed up against the gazebo pillars, “I’m getting tired just looking at you.”

“I have a lot of stamina, I’ll be fine,” you say.  

In the end, you do end up pulling the chair over and sitting down to get a better view of the game. It’s confusing and you mostly have no idea what’s going on, but you are invested -- who will win? This is the one game where Cullen doesn’t have any noticeable tells and you don’t know any of the pieces well enough to determine what’s going on.

After a few turns, they stop talking and focus on the game.  

You turn in your chair and look out at the gardens behind you, having grown bored of staring at a checkered board, and your eyes catch on the Chantry sisters speaking to the soldiers and nobles hanging around. Mila is assisting the healers down in the refugee village today, you remember with a frown. You’re lucky Dorian had called you over to say hello, else you wouldn’t have spoken to anyone today.

“Commander Cullen!”

A messenger appears in your line of sight, hurrying toward the game. “You’re needed in the war room,” she says once she’s beside you. When she notices you, she adds, “You as well, Ser Tabris.”

Cullen heaves a sigh and pushes to his feet, “I’ll be right there.”

“We can continue some other time,” Dorian says, still seated, “whenever you wish to feel the sting of defeat.”

“Keep dreaming, Dorian,” Cullen says.

You walk with Cullen to the war room in silence. When you arrive, Cyris is already there, still in his armor like he walked through the gates and came straight here, and he looks grim.

“We have bad news,” he says, then looks to Leliana.  

She slides several sheets of papers across the table, “These are reports we’ve received of Venatori presence in the court of King Markus,” she explains. Cullen picks up one of the reports and his eyes widen. “A mage by the name of Virellius seems to be advising the King against the Inquisition.”

“My ambassadors have been reporting the same, along with an increase in hostilities toward them. They also note how quickly Virellius became heeded, considering his relatively recent arrival in Nevarra,” Josephine says.

“We suspect he might be charming King Markus,” Leliana says.

 Cyris drags his hands down his face and sits hard against the table. “If Nevarra allies with the Venatori, we’ll be risking an all-out war,” he says, sounding tired. 

Cullen shakes his head and sets the paper down, “We don’t have enough soldiers to fight a war with Nevarra,” he says.  

“Their army is large, yes,” Leliana says, and she’s the only one who doesn’t look upset by this information. She must have known about this for some time, you think -- there’s no way all these reports arrived at once. “Bolstered with Corypheus’s men and his demon army, we wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“I could appeal to some of the nobles for their men, but I doubt it would be enough,” Josephine says.

“And no one wants to risk a war with Nevarra,” Cullen taps a rhythm on the hilt of his sword and stares at the map, frowning.

“I suggest we send an agent to eliminate Virellius and his supporters before we are forced into conflict with Nevarra,” Leliana says.

Cyris chews on his lip.

Josephine shakes her head, “We _could_ attempt to make King Markus see the light. Bring evidence, show him who his advisor truly is.”  

“And if your plan does not succeed, we can just kill him.” 

“Leliana, we should not consider killing our only option.” 

“Perhaps not, but in this instance, I would argue that it is.”

“Alternatively, we could wait for this advisor to leave the capital and set up an ambush,” Cullen says.  

Cyris pushes to his feet and starts to pace, his armor _clinking_ with every step, and the room falls silent. You lean down to get a better look at the slew of reports on the table, but it’s all just runes to you. So much for knowing what’s going on.

Suddenly, he stops, and looks back at the four of you, “Killing him is our only option,” he says, “but we need to be sure it succeeds. We cannot have him running back to King Markus with proof the Inquisition tried to kill him.”

“Of course not, Inquisitor,” Leliana says.

“Tabris,” he says, “what do you think?”

You aren’t sure. “Um,” you shift some of the papers around nervously, racking your brain for whatever you might know about this war table mission. As far as you can tell, it isn’t particularly important and any plan will work. Unfortunately, this is real life and real life seldom goes according to plan.

“Leliana’s plan is best,” you say. It seems the best course of action. 

He nods and looks to Leliana, “Have it done.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

“Our meeting is adjourned.” He turns to leave, but pauses in front of the open door and looks back at the four of you, “Please try not to have anything important come to your attention until after I’ve taken a bath.”

 

>><<

 

“You’re cheating.”  
  
Cyris shuffles the cards in his hands and says, very seriously, without taking his eyes off the cards, “Cassandra, I am offended. What have I done to earn your distrust? I thought we were friends, yet here you are spreading lies and slander about me, not evening thinking to ask me in private first --”  
  
“I can see the cards up your sleeves,” she interrupts, scowling at him.  
  
He visibly tucks the hidden cards back into his sleeve. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
Cassandra rolls her eyes and looks back to the cards laid out on the table, “This game is ridiculous. Am i the only one not cheating?”  
  
“Most likely,” Dorian says, shifting his cards around.  
  
“I’m not,” you say.  
  
“Cheating is part of the rules, Cassandra. It’s an art,” Cyris slides a new card into his hand and, when he notices you watching him, winks.  
  
“It is ridiculous,” she says again.  
  
“You only say that ‘cause you don’t know how to cheat,” The Iron Bull says, his arm slung over the back of the empty chair beside him.  
  
“I see no reason to learn,” she says.  
  
“I could give you some lessons,” Cyris suggests, smirking, “my quarters are always open, of course.”  
  
“Keep your flirting to a minimum, please,” Dorian says, “I’m trying to rob you all blind.”  
  
Iron Bull laughs from across the table, “Gonna be hard with that piss-poor of a hand.”  
  
“Don’t you dare use your mind reading tricks on me, Bull.”  
  
“We are not flirting,” Cassandra says.  
  
“One of us is,” Cyris says under his breath.  
  
“Perhaps Cassandra could deal next time,” Dorian says.  
  
“And have her start a new Inquisition for cheating at Wicked Grace? No thanks,” Varric says, cringing at the thought.  
  
“Please. If Cyris wasn’t so terrible at it, she’d be none the wiser,” Dorian says.  
  
“I’d rather not take the chance,” Varric says. He places one of his cards face-down and looks toward Cassandra, eyebrow raised, “She might just start accusing people randomly until something sticks.”  
  
“Rest assured, Varric, I could not care less about your cheating habits,” Cassandra says, then looks toward you, “Tabris, shouldn’t you be enforcing the rules? He is very obviously hiding cards up his sleeve.”  
  
You open your mouth to respond, but Cyris interrupts, speaking very quickly, with one finger pointed at you, “Tabris, your job hinges on the next words out of your mouth.”  
  
You draw the next card from the deck and shrug. “It’s not like he’s going to win,” you say.  
  
“Tabris!”  
  
The Iron Bull laughs, “They’ve got you pegged, huh, boss.”  
  
Cyris groans and looks back at his cards, “Remind me why I hang out with any of you.”  
  
“It’s more fun to lose your money in a group,” Dorian tells him.  
  
While they aren’t looking, you draw the Angel of Death from the center of the deck where you’d hidden it before. No one notices, thankfully -- magic makes it a lot easier to cheat, you’ve realized. “Show me your hand, everyone,” you say, and lay it face up on the table.  
  
“Ah, shit.” Varric tosses a mess of mismatched cards onto the table and sighs.  
  
“I think it’s obvious who the winner is,” Cassandra says, “only one of us knows how to play this game.”  
  
“Speak for yourself,” Dorian says, but his hand is almost as bad as Varric’s.  
  
The Iron Bull lays his cards on the table, revealing a winning hand and a shit-eating grin. “Forget mercenary work, beating you in Wicked Grace could be my new career,” he says, pulling the stack of coins to him.  
  
“You’ll run the Inquisition out of business,” Cyris says, and glances sidelong at you, “besides, I’m beginning to think the dealer might be in cahoots with someone at the table.”  
  
Varric laughs, “Somehow I doubt Bull needs any help, especially with how you all play.”  
  
You gather everyone’s cards and shuffle them back into the deck, smiling.

 

>><<

 

As soon as she’s back from the refugee village, Mila corners you on the battlements and drags you into an empty room with an altogether too excited look. You wonder how she managed to find you. “I have something to tell you,” she says, grinning.

You blink. “What?”

“Listen to this--” she pulls you over to a dusty box and sits you down on it, “guess who I saw coming up to Skyhold the other day.”

You frown. Cyris hadn’t mentioned anyone important arriving. “Who?”

She takes a moment to compose herself before saying, “The Champion of Kirkwall!”

You tilt your head, confused.

She frowns at you. “Honestly, Tabris? Have you not read Varric’s book?”

Your eyes widen, “Oh Hawke! Hawke is here?” 

“Yes! I saw her coming this way just yesterday,” Mila says, “caused quite a stir in the refugee town! Not that anyone recognized her, of course -- besides _me_ \-- but she came dressed like the Grim Reaper and scared some of the children near to death. If she was trying to be inconspicuous, she did a poor job. She might have gotten out without being recognized, but Maker’s breath will she be remembered, I thought someone was going to call the guards on her!”

“I haven’t seen her yet,” you say.

“You must tell me if you run into her, I’d love to have her sign my book,” she says.

“How was the village otherwise,” you ask.

“Dull.” Mila plops down next to you and sighs, “The villagers were very nice, but all I did was talk or help with bandages. Not the most exciting visit." 

“At least you got to see Hawke.”

“Yes, that was nice.” She rubs some of the dirt off her dress, but it stains. She sighs again. “How was your week, Tabris?”

“Fine,” you say.

“Can’t you give me more than one word?”

The only thing of interest this week was the whole Nevarra thing, but you aren’t sure if you can tell Mila about that -- it seems like the kind of thing you would keep a secret especially since it’s such an important mission. Maybe you could just be vague about? You tug at the loose thread on your sleeve, “Nothing really happened. The Inquisitor was interested in something in Nevarra, that’s about the only interesting thing.”

“Nevarra,” she repeats thoughtfully.

 “Yeah.”

She smiles, “Must have something to do with that Seeker, hm? Asking for her hand in marriage, perhaps?”

“I somehow doubt that,” you say flatly.

She bats your shoulder. “So boring, Tabris. It’s a romantic thought!” She stands and brushes the dust off the back of her dress, “But anyhow, I should be going. I need to get back to my Chantry duties.”

“Bye.”

“Have a good rest of your day,” she gives you a quick hug before she leaves.

 

>><<

 

_“If you ever need to talk.”_

You hover outside of Cullen’s tower, feeling foolish. The moons are high in the night sky, illuminating the battlements with soft yellow light, and the guards have just finished their rotations. It has to be one in the morning, you shouldn’t bother him -- he’s working, probably, or about to go to sleep or talking to someone else or _anything_ that gives you a reason to run away.

But he had offered.

The shadows are growing darker, feeding off your fear and anxiety, and your heart rate speeds up just a little. Whatever nightmare you woke up from is still weighing heavy on your mind and everything is making you jump; one of the guards turned toward you too fast and you’d nearly screamed.

You creak the door open. Aside from a low flickering candle, the room is dark. Cullen doesn’t seem to notice you, hunched as he is over the desk, head in one hand and a stack of papers piled high beside him. You think again about leaving, but it strikes you that he looks ill.

“Are you alright,” you ask, still gripping the door.

He jerks up, but relaxes when he sees you. He shakes his head, “Just a headache. I’ll be fine.”

“Do you want some food?” You’d suggest caffeine, but you aren’t sure they have that here.

“I’m fine, thank you, Tabris.” He marks a few notes on one of the papers and then pushes it aside before looking tiredly at the rest. When he notices you’re still standing there, he says, “Did you need something?” 

“No.” He looks busy; you don’t want to bother him with your dumb shit. “I could get rid of your headache,” you say, “if you want.”  

Cullen hesitates. “I… don’t think anything would work on this particular headache,” he says carefully.

A withdrawal headache? You think your magic can handle that, it can’t be too different from a normal headache. “You never know until you try,” you say.

He looks back down at the papers and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. You think he might give in. “Please,” he says.

“Show me where it hurts.” You come up beside him and lean against the desk, careful not to mess any of the papers or catch on fire. He taps the spot just above his right eye. “It’ll be cold,” you say, your healing magic coloring the room in gold. With the light of the magic, you can see the papers and ink littering the desk. It looks like he’s been at this for awhile if the balled up pieces of parchment scattered across the floor are any indication. You place two fingers on the side of his face and let the magic flow into him. 

“Thank you, Tabris,” he says, and it sounds like a sigh of relief.

“My pleasure,” you say. “I used to get headaches a lot. I wouldn’t want you to have to work through it.”

“You’re too kind.” He looks up at you, “but I doubt you came here to waste mana on me. Is something wrong?" 

You shake your head. The magic starts to draw back as it feels the pain lessening and after a moment longer, you remove your hand. “No,” you say, “I was just taking my nightly walk. You know how it is.”

“Right,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you. 

You push off the desk and smile at him, “I should go, you look pretty busy.”

“It can wait,” he says.

You shake your head, “It was nothing, I feel better now. But thanks, I should -- I’ll go. I’ll see you.” You hurry out of the tower and back to your room, wondering why the fuck you can’t talk to people like a normal human being.

 

>><<

  
  
Speaking to Solas never seemed so terrifying until this moment. Realistically, you know he can’t do anything to you; someone would notice your absence, it’s not like you’re some lowly servant, and the information you’re going to disclose isn’t something worth killing over. Hopefully.  
  
But you’ve told yourself this already -- several times -- and still you can do nothing but stand, tracing the wood grain of the rotunda door with your eyes, willing yourself to go inside.  
  
You don’t.  
  
The Chantry bell tolls and you decide to come back later.


	21. show me yours and i'll show you mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so fucking late!!
> 
> anyways, i hope you guys enjoy the update! critiques and comments are welcome!

_Later_ ends up being almost a week.

(The only reason it isn’t any longer is because Cole had come to you, in the dead of night, to tell you in his special way that Solas is _not_ going to kill you and you need to hurry the fuck up and talk to him.

The nightmares were also a compelling reason.)

Solas is painting the far wall when you enter. He doesn’t look up, likely used to people passing through on the way up to the library; he continues to line the large center figure of the fresco in blue.

“Excuse me,” you begin, hovering awkwardly in the archway.

He looks back at you, his brush paused in the air. “Yes?”

“I need to talk to you,” you say, taking a few steps toward him, “I’m Tabris, by the way.”

“The Spirit Healer,” he says and turns to fully face you. “The Inquisitor has spoken highly of you. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Yeah.”

He sets his paints and brush on the small table set up beside him. “What is it you wish to speak about?”

“Fade stuff,” you say. “Is there any way we could talk somewhere else? It’s private.”

“Ah,” Solas says like he has any idea what you’re talking about. “I would be able to cast a spell to silence our conversation,” he says, then adds, “if that is alright with you.”

You nod and immediately the din from the library and rookery above is dampened like behind thick glass. Solas motions toward his desk and you follow.

“I told the Inquisitor I can see the future,” you say.

“I cannot --”

“That’s not what this is about.” He offers you a chair but you decline. He stays standing as well. “I _can_ see the future, just not… with magic. It’s hard to explain.” Your eyes skitter across the books on his desk as you try to piece your thoughts together. “I’m from a different reality. Not the Fade.”

He is quiet for a moment, studying you. “You believe you are from… beyond the Fade,” he supplies.

“I _know,_ ” you say, meeting his eyes. “That’s how I can see the future. Where I’m from, everything that happens here is written down in a book and I’ve already read that book, so I know what’s going to happen.”

“Hm.” He holds your gaze for a moment then turns to his books. “I have seen spirits cross the Veil and take mortal form, but I have never heard of a mortal crossing the Fade from another reality,” he says.

“I know it sounds crazy, but it happened,” you insist.

“You are certain you are not a spirit,” he asks, meeting your eyes again.

You nod.

“Crossing the Fade can have unintended effects. You have met Cole, have you not?”

“Yes.”

“He was not always aware of what he was,” he says.

Oh, fuck. He’s not going to help you, is he? In a fit of panic, you snap, “It doesn’t matter!” He blinks, looking slightly taken aback, and you barrel forward. “I came to you because you’re the only one that can help me. I want to figure out how I got here, whether it was from the Fade or beyond the Fade. _Please,_ will you just _help me_!”

“...I will help you, Tabris,” Solas says after a moment. “Sometimes spirits can be reminded of their true nature through logical means. I apologize if I upset you.”

The fight drains out of you. “No, it’s just...” you sigh and look away, instead focusing on the tick marks carved into the wood of the desk. “I’ve worried about the spirit thing, like… what if everything I remember is just some fantasy?”

He is quiet. You keep your eyes fixed on the tick marks, heart hammering against your rib cage. “Tell me about your old life,” he says.

“It was very different from this one,” you say. “Like, we’ve been to the moon.”

“Your people traveled to the moon?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. And we only have one moon.”

Solas sounds impressed. “How was that possible?”

“Well, I don’t know the logistics of it. It happened, like, fifty years ago. We built spaceships, spacesuits, we had to figure out how to get out of the atmosphere and then how to get back in the atmosphere without getting burned up,” you say, “but we didn’t use magic. We don’t have that where I’m from.”

“And yet you possess considerable magic ability,” he says, “are you certain your world is without it?”

“Positive.”

“It is difficult to imagine an idea such as that wouldn’t have echoes within the Fade,” he says, his arm coming to partially cover the tick marks as he reaches for something on the desk. “Perhaps you are correct. You may be a spirit, but if you are it is not from the Fade as we know it.”

For some reason, you are paranoid that he might just be humoring you -- he’s probably just biding his time until he can try to “remind” you of your true nature again. You manage to keep your tone neutral when you say, “Thanks, Solas.”

He pulls a few sheets of blank parchment out of a thick leather book and a quill from somewhere on the desk. You move closer to him to catch what he’s writing, but it all looks like scribbles to you. “Do you remember how you came to arrive in this world,” he asks, glancing sidelong at you.

“I woke up in a forest surrounded by corpses,” you say, squinting at the papers. “What are you doing?”

“Taking notes,” he replies.

“No,” you say immediately, “what if someone finds this?”

He chuckles, seemingly oblivious to your panic. “I doubt they would be able to read it,” he says and waves a hand over the page. The words swirl and blink out of existence, leaving only blank parchment staring up at you.

You scowl and step away from the desk.

“Was there anything particular that you can recall about the forest? Or the corpses?”

You pause, racking your brain for something that might seem out of the ordinary -- it’s difficult considering the entire situation was out of the ordinary. “I do remember a bright light and voices, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “Sorry, there’s not much else. I just went to bed and then woke up in the woods.”

“And it was in the Korcari Wilds that you awoke?”

“I think so.”

“I see,” he says.

“You can dig around in the Fade, right?”

“It would be easier if I were able to investigate the area where you first arrived. Somehow I doubt that would be possible,” he says, pausing in his writing to look at you.

 _Absolutely not_ is your immediate thought. You swallow the bile that rises in your throat. “I don’t know where that is,” you say one you’ve collected yourself, “not that I would want to go back.”

“I expected as much.” He frowns and scribbles a few words on the parchment, but seems at a loss. After several moments, he looks back at you, “Did you take anything out of the Wilds?”

“Yeah, injuries,” you say wryly and turn your back to him. What does that have to do with anything? You start to shake your head but are suddenly reminded of the old cloak you have hung up in your room. “I took a cloak,” you say.

“Bring it to me,” he says, “I might be able to determine the magic that brought you here.”

“Alright.” You hear more scribbling.

“And come to me if you remember anything significant,” he says. “Memories often take time resurfacing; I wouldn’t be surprised if you began to remember bits and pieces.”

“It’s been six years. Somehow I doubt that,” you say.

“The mind is mysterious.”

You hum in agreement and look over your shoulder at him, itching to ask _exactly_ what he’s writing. “Oh.” You turn to him, “Cole said you could help with my nightmares.”

“I can,” he says without looking up.

Yikes. Either you’re that easy to read, or, “He already talked to you.”

He nods, a small smile appearing on his face. “He did,” he says. “He said you were… intimidated by me.”

Your scowl deepens and you make a mental note to speak to Cole about telling others what you think of them. “For good reason,” you say, “which is the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What is it,” he asks.

You steel yourself with a deep breath and say, “I know you’re the Dread Wolf.”

The sound of dampened footsteps from the balconies above is unnerving in the ensuing silence, like the sound of someone walking across the lid of a wooden coffin which, if things don’t go your way, this room very well might be. You keep your eyes fixed on him despite how badly you want to run, dozens of scenarios where he kills you cycling through your mind.

He looks up at you, looking calmer than you think he has any right to be. “How did you arrive at this conclusion,” he asks.

You blink. “I… told you I know everything.”

“You did,” he says, “but do you? You’ve yet to demonstrate your otherworldly knowledge.”

“You want proof.”

“Yes.”

"You gave Corypheus the orb," you say, a little at a loss with your thoughts scattered as they are. "You were too weak to open it and you thought he could, but he betrayed you. Now you're trying to get the orb back so you can do what you were doing originally -- tearing down the Veil." 

Solas doesn't seem convinced. He opens his mouth to speak, but you interrupt him -- you aren't about to let him weasel his way out of the truth.

"Did you kill Felassan?"

He blinks, "Excuse me?"

"It's in the book. He was an agent of Fen'Harel," you say, watching him carefully, "he was supposed to get the password for the Eluvians that Briala and Celene had, but he couldn't. He dies at the end of the book but it doesn't explicitly say who killed him. It was you, wasn't it?"

He regards you with narrowed eyes, his hand coming up to fidget with the jaw bone around his neck. "I must admit, I'm surprised," he says, "I hadn't expected you to know so much." 

"I'm not going to tell anyone," you say. 

“No, I suspect you won’t,” he says, making your blood turn to ice. Is he going to kill you? He continues, either oblivious to your panic or simply ignoring it, “I doubt Cole would have encouraged you to seek me out if you were here to blackmail me. I appreciate your honesty, Tabris. Most in your position would have used this information to their advantage.”

“I just want to know what happened to me,” you tell him, “I thought if you knew, you wouldn’t think you needed to hide anything.”

"Thank you," he says. He carefully bundles the notes together and hides them in the leather book, “Come to me immediately if you remember anything, no matter how insignificant,” he says, “anything could hold a clue to the magic that brought you here, even things you see in dreams.”

“Okay.”

“I will let you know the moment I discover anything,” he says.

"I'll bring that cloak when I can," you say. 

"In the meantime, I will research." 

You incline your head and feel the silencing spell fall around you, the sounds and chatter from above coming back full-force to fill the rotunda. Solas returns your nod and starts sifting through the books on his desk.


	22. he will roam forever, haunting the desert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happy halloweeeeeeeeeeen! 
> 
> enjoy this obligatory halloween chapter.

“This holiday is now known across Thedas as All Soul’s Day and spent in somber remembrance of the dead. In some northern lands, the people dress as spirits and walk the streets in parade after midnight. The Chantry uses the holiday to remember the death of Andraste, with public fires that mark her immolation and plays that depict her death.”   
\- World of Thedas, Vol 1  
  


_ Darkness envelopes the hall and a knife steals the air from your lungs, cutting through muscle and bone and blood, and before your body goes numb, warm breath ghosts across your cheek. Someone hisses a word in Tevene --  _ traitor,  _ you think -- _

Your eyes open as the carriage lurches to a halt. Across from you, Cyris is tapping the blade of his wooden sword against Cassandra’s shoulder, earning a glare and the ghost of a smile, and beside them Leliana is tying on the final piece of her all black costume.

“Comte Noir has prepared quite the party this year,” Josephine says as she lifts the window curtain. 

“She does this every year?” Cyris raises a brow, “I thought All Soul’s Day was for remembrance or some such.”

“Some people treat it as a day to celebrate,” Leliana says, smoothing the creases out of her trousers, “In the past few years, Orlais has separated from the original meaning of the holiday.”

“They still put on the plays for Andraste,” Cassandra says, grimacing. “I had to attend one for the Divine -- it was… insulting.”

Leliana chuckles, “Comte Noir is particularly heretical. You should prepare yourself, Cassandra.”

The carriage door opens and a guard wearing a full face mask ushers the five of you out onto the cobblestone driveway where Cullen is already waiting. “The Comte is waiting for you in the main hall,” the guard says, sweeping his arm toward the large entrance of the estate. 

Cyris inclines his head, “Thank you. We’ll be able to find our way there.” 

“Josephine,” you hear Leliana say accusingly. 

“It’s -- don’t laugh, Leliana!” 

You turn just as Josephine jerks the skirt of her white ball gown through the narrow carriage door, a loud ripping sound accompanied by her stumbling into you.  She balances herself with a hand on your shoulder and glares back at Leliana, scowling, “You are no help,” she says. Her look is made unnerving by the make-up she’s applied. 

“I told you the skirt was too wide, Josie,” Leliana says, smiling. She walks over and offers her arm, which Josephine takes.

The estate of Comte Noir is not particularly large or grand -- in fact, for someone in the Orlesian nobility, it is quite plain; the house is only two stories tall and has, according to what Josephine has told you, only ten rooms on each floor, thus making it one of the smaller estates owned by one of the higher ranked Orlesian nobles. The outside is painted white with blue accents, has a handful of gold fixtures affixed to the roof and doors, and the curb appeal is little more than cut grass and a bush or two of pink flowers. 

When you near the large double doors two guards open them and gesture you inside, where it is a much different story. The estate is decorated to the ceiling in black and gold. There are pumpkins piled up on either side of every door or entryway, some with faces cut into them and some with candles inside, fake blood smeared on the floor and walls, scratch marks that bite deep into the walls, a fake severed head cut out of fruit on two of the large tables in the main hall, and fake spider webs draped over tables and chairs. All the furniture is shiny and new, like it hasn’t ever been used, and the tableware gleams in the candlelight.

“She really likes Halloween, huh,” you mutter. Even the band is playing music more suitable for a horror movie than a party. 

“Inquisitor! How lovely of you to attend!” A woman dressed in a black fox mask and a floor-length black gown that shows an ample amount of cleavage saunters up to Cyris, her arms open wide. 

“Comte Noir.” They greet each other with a kiss on the cheek before Cyris continues, “It was very kind of you to invite us to your All Soul’s Day celebration.” 

“It is my pleasure, Inquisitor,” she says, placing a hand over her heart, “and when the party is over, we must speak -- I have very interesting things to tell you.” 

Cyris smiles, “I look forward to it, Comte.” 

“Now, I should attend to my other guests. Please, make yourselves at home,” she motions to the large main hall before disappearing into another room. 

Leliana sidles up to Cyris and says, “The Comte has connections, Inquisitor. If she says she has something to tell us, it will not be a waste of our time.”

“And here I thought we were invited to have a lovely dinner,” he says. 

“Nothing in Orlais is ever that simple,” Cullen says. 

In the main hall, the decorations are much more elegant than the rest of the house. There are large black curtains that hang from the ceiling and a chandelier of diamonds that stands out against their darkness; between the two tables is a raised stage with a wooden beam in the middle for what you assume will be the play on Andraste’s life;  there are two centerpieces on each table of black candles melted on top of fake golden skulls and different types of small flowers laying around them. Each seat has a golden skeletal hand holding a nametag and gold silverware.

Cyris points out your spot next to him before sitting down. The rest find their own -- Cassandra on Cyris’s left; Josephine and Leliana across from her; and Cullen across from you. “You know, Cyris, your costume really is very good,” Leliana says once she’s seated, ignoring the glare Cullen sends her way, “we should have all done something like that.”

“I think your costumes are better,” Cassandra says to her, “They match.”

“The makeup is very good, too,” Cyris says.

Josephine smiles brightly, “Thank you! It was difficult, but I think it turned out very well.”

All their costumes are good, you think -- well, aside from Cassandra and Cullen -- but Cyris’s is the best. When he had first arrived all dressed up, everyone had stopped and  _ stared.  _ For half a moment you thought time had frozen, but then Leliana inclined her head and said  _ Commander  _ and everyone lost it. He even did his hair to match -- it was near perfect. Cullen wasn’t happy about it, mostly because Cyris had stolen most of his clothes to do it, but he wasn’t upset, at least. 

Leliana and Josephine have the prettiest costumes: a skeleton and a ghost, respectively. Their facepaint makes them almost look like the real things -- you’ve seen a few guests do a doubletake already. Josephine’s dress looks like a moth-eaten wedding gown and Leliana is dressed in an all-black nobleman’s outfit. 

Cullen tried a little bit, but his costume isn’t imaginative at all; he’s wearing some fancy clothes and a simple gold mask. He had said he dressed up as a “prince” or a “noble” or whatever, but you could tell it was just an excuse to get Josephine off his back.

And Cassandra… oh, Cassandra obviously does not want to be here -- she’s wearing her armor. That’s it. Didn’t even bother to make up an excuse. 

“I think Tabris has a very nice costume,” Leliana says. 

Everyone looks at you. 

“Uh, thanks?” You adjust the satin strap on your mask. 

“It’s a raven, right?” 

You nod. You’d thought about going as a pirate, but that seemed… kind of boring. Then you had found the mask at one of the stalls in Skyhold and knew you had to use it. It was simple -- just a gold mask with a long beak -- but the detail was gorgeous. Mila helped you sew some feathers onto a short black cloak and you had a perfect costume. 

“Next time we should have an All Soul’s Day party at Skyhold,” Cyris says, grinning. “We can do couple’s costumes.”

“Oh? What would you and Cassandra dress as,” Cullen asks. 

Cyris shrugs and takes a sip of his wine. 

“He could dress as a dragon and I could be a dragon slayer,” Cassandra says. 

“Or you’re my knight in shining armor and I’m your prince,” he says. 

Comte Noir sweeps into the room, wine glass in hand, and her voice carries throughout the entire hall, “Dinner will be served shortly, everyone! Please find your seats and prepare yourselves!” 

A flurry of movement as all the guests hurry to their spots. A small qunari in a skull mask sits down beside you just as the first course begins to be served and the lights dim. 

“As custom --” Comte Noir steps onto the raised platform and smiles at the guests around her “ -- we will be honoring Andraste with a play about her untimely demise. Please enjoy the show!” She exits to a round of applause. 

The play begins with a woman dressed in an all-white robe stepping onto the stage and beginning with a speech about something or other. Honestly, you can’t be assed to pay attention -- it’s  _ so fucking boring.  _ Can’t they spice it up a little? Better yet, can’t they explain this in simple turns so someone who doesn’t have a clue about Andraste can follow along. 

The actor play Hessarian says something and the audience erupts in laughter. You don’t get the joke. Neither does Cyris, evidently, because he’s not laughing either. Why’d they invite elves to a play about Andraste. 

Andraste snaps her fingers and a ball of light appears in her hands. She uses the spell to act like she’s healing the wounded around her, but you can tell it’s just a simple light spell. It’s a little nice that they added this magical touch, though, especially since, from what you remember, Andraste being a mage is pretty much heresy in Orlais.

A third actor dressed entirely in black enters onto the stage and the crowd boos. He says his name -- you don’t catch it over the boos -- but it’s very obvious that he’s whatever Tevinter guy burned Andraste at the stake. He’s more cartoon-y villain in this iteration, though. He even does a maniacal laugh and twirls his mustache. Wow, didn’t know that trope existed in this world. 

“Varric would love this,” Cyris whispers to Cassandra. 

A loud boom of thunder cuts through the din of the play and the room is enveloped by darkness. A bloodcurdling scream pierces the air. 

“Calm down, everyone!” Boots click against the tile floor as people rush around. Someone shoves against you and the centerpiece candles are lit, allowing a small amount of light to illuminate the space. 

“What the fuck is going on,” Cyris hisses, and you hear his chair grind against the floor as he stands up.

The torches and the fireplace are relit and bathe the room in light. The actors move back toward the stage to continue the play, but the woman playing Andraste stops short and  _ screams.  _ Several people start yelling at once.

“Is that--”

“The Comte!”

“Comte Noir!”

Propped up against the stage is Comte Noir, a large knife sticking out of her back. It’s obvious even from this distance that she is dead. 

Cyris vaults onto the table and stomps his foot to get everyone’s attention. “No one moves,” he yells, casting his gaze over the main hall, “Someone in here is the killer. No one moves until we figure out who.” 

Everyone freezes. People who had been standing slowly sink back down into their chairs, their eyes wide, as the guards move to block off the exits. 

“I know who did it,” one of the guests at the other table yells and points directly at you, “that one!”

“The fuck,” you exclaim. 

“They’ve been sitting next to me all night, Lesly, so shut the fuck up,” the man beside you says. 

“I don’t want to hear from the likes of you, beast,” the woman snarls. 

The man stands up, “What did you call me?” You stand and put your hand on the man’s shoulder before he can take another step towards her. 

“Tabris had nothing to do with this,” Cyris says to the woman, “they’re an important member of the Inquisition and I would appreciate if you wouldn’t blindly accuse anyone else.” 

The woman looks away, cowed. 

“Cullen, Josephine, if you would help me by speaking to some of the guests,” Cyris turns toward them, “We need to speak to everyone in the room to see if they had motive or opportunity. Start with the people sitting closest to the body.” 

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Cullen says. 

“Tabris,” he looks at you, “you’re helping me.”

You really hope he doesn’t ask you about using your sight to see who did this, because… yeah, that’s not gonna happen. “What do you want me to do,” you ask when he jumps off the table in front of you.

“I want you to help me question these people,” he says. 

“Ah.”

“You might be able to see something I can’t,” he says, and gestures vaguely at you, “Y’know, with your… abilities.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

He nods and looks at the man in the skull mask who had defended you. “I’d like to talk to you first, Ser,” he says. 

The qunari sighs, “If you’d like,” he says. Cyris leads the both of you out into the hallway and sits the man down on one of the cushioned chairs. 

“Did you see anything after the lights went out,” he asks. 

“No, Ser,” the man says, “and if I had, I would tell you. The Comte was a very good friend of mine, she -- she was the only one who…” he trails off and looks away, sniffing a bit. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know of anyone who might want to kill the Comte, would you,” you ask. 

He shakes his head. “Everyone loved the Comte,” he says, “at least, everyone here. She only invites her friends and I, I can’t see any of them wanting to murder her.”

You hum in thought.

“What’s your name, Ser?”

“Ragnar,” the man says.

Cyris stares at him.

“No last name -- I’m a mercenary.”

“Just Ragnar,” he says.

“Yes, Inquisitor.” 

Cyris glances at you and you shake your head. He looks back Ragnar, “How do you know the Comte?”

Ragnar smiles, “We were mercenaries together. I knew her back when she was still Comtesse Noir, in fact.” 

“Why’d she change her name?”

He shrugs and waves a hand, “She liked being controversial. Said it was something about how Comtesse sounds like you belong to a man whereas Comte sounds more official or whatever. I didn’t understand the specifics of it, but I knew not to call her Comtesse anymore.” He chuckles a little bit, “Maker, if you called her Comtesse she’d cut your head off.”

“How long did you two know each other?”

“Twenty years,” he says. 

Cyris nods, “You can go back to your seat.” 

“Thank you.” Ragnar gives the both of you a shallow bow before rushing back into the main hall. 

Cyris turns to you, “Do you have any clue who might’ve done this,” he asks. 

You shake your head, “I don’t see anything. Sorry.” 

He sighs. “Onto the next one, then.” 

BRYNN EASTMON

“So, Lady Eastmon, how did you know the Comte?” 

Brynn scowls at the two of you like this is nothing more than an inconvenience and a woman hasn’t just been murdered in cold blood. She folds her arms and looks away, fixing her eyes on one of the pumpkins behind you. “Noir and my late husband were good friends,” she says, “she’s one of the few that still deigns to speak to me now that he’s gone.”

You and Cyris exchange a glance. 

“I didn’t kill her,” she says. 

“Do you know who did,” Cyris asks.

She thinks for a moment. “Noir had enemies,” she says, “she deals in information -- anyone who sells information has enemies. She told me she had something big, didn’t say who it was from. I don’t know much else.”

“Is there anyone here that you think might have done it,” you ask.

“Not sure,” she says and taps the jeweled mask she’s wearing. “Everyone's wearing masks. Hard to tell who’s a stranger and who isn’t.” 

Cyris motions for her to leave and she stands, but pauses and looks back at the two of you. “You elves, you can see in the dark, can’t you?” 

“Yes,” Cyris says. 

“I know a bit of magic. That darkness, it was thick, wasn’t it.” 

Cyris narrows his eyes, “You think it was magic,” he asks. 

She nods, “I know it was. Couldn’t see a thing, no one could. You’re looking for a mage.” 

NASIRA

“Noir was great, she throws the best parties.” Nasira is draped over the armchair, a gold coin balanced precariously between two knuckles as she toys with it. She glances at the two of you every once in awhile, but mostly stares off into space. 

“Is that how you met her,” Cyris asks. 

“Sort of,” she says, grinning, “it’s kinda a funny story, honestly. I, uh. I tried to rob ‘er.”

You blink. “You tried to steal from her?” 

She laughs, “Yeah, like five years ago -- I was in a bad place, needed some cash. Luckily she was real nice about it and offered me a job ‘n shit. Turned out pretty nice.”

“So, she got you in with the mercenaries?” 

“Yep. She used to be a merc,” she says, looking back at the two of you, “That’s how she knows ‘em.” 

Cyris frowns, “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill her?”

Nasira shakes her head. “She sells info, right? Probably some bastard who doesn’t want all his dirty laundry aired.” She suddenly sits upright and leans forward, “You know what everyone here has in common, right?”

“What?” 

“None of us got any secrets,” she says, “that one noble lady you were talkin’ to? She’s wanted for killing her husband. That Qunari? He’s grifted everyone from here all the way to Antiva. Me, I steal shit. We’re all criminals.” 

You lean against the wall beside her chair, “You’re saying no one in there has motive to kill her because everyone already knows your dirty laundry.” 

She taps her nose as if to say  _ you got it,  _ “Someone in there ain’t who they say they are.” 

KADE

“Dressed as the Black Fox,” Kade says. He’s young, looks to be in his early twenties, and like someone from a noble line. “Noir always fancied herself as some sort of hero.” 

“How did you know her,” Cyris asks. 

“She used to be good friends with my father,” he says, and gestures to the coat of arms stitched into the sash he’s wearing. It’s dirty and has holes in it, looking more like a family heirloom than a status symbol. “He married her brother. They got into loads of trouble together.” 

“What sort of trouble?”

He shifts uncomfortably, “They liked to piss off the other Orlesian nobles. Y’know, sell their secrets and blackmail them and such. Terrible things, really.” 

“Do you think one of those nobles could have wanted revenge,” you ask. 

He shakes his head and looks away, “I doubt it. She stopped doing it awhile ago, goes after bad guys now like the Venatori and the ‘Vints. Any of those nobles they pissed off would’ve been over it by now.” 

Cyris’ eyes crawl over the old sash Kade is wearing. “I didn’t know Comte Noir had a family,” he says, “I thought she was an only child.”

“She is now,” he says bitterly, “she was the only family I had left -- everyone’s… gone.” 

“Your father was a noble,” you ask. 

He nods while staring at the ground, “Yes. We lost our title shortly after I was born… Noir was kind enough to help us out.” 

“And yet the Comte still kept her title?”

Now he glares at the both of you, his face screwed up in anger, “I did  _ not  _ kill her. Her title isn’t even in my name! It would’ve been forfeit! There was no reason to kill her over it if I got nothing from it.” 

MADDOX

aka mads

Mads looks a lot different without Andraste’s blonde wig on. She’s slouching in the armchair, her arms folded, and looks equally horrified and annoyed. When Cyris starts to speak, she glares daggers at him. “Noir gave me my first acting job,” she says, “she believed in me, thought I could make it big in the Orlesian circuit.” 

“But you didn’t,” you say flatly. She scowls. 

“Orlesians don’t like ‘Vints,” she snarls, “once those fuckers found out who my dad was, it was over.”

“So you have no motive to kill Comte Noir?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” she snaps, “why would I? She was my only paying gig! Without her, I’m fucked. I’ll probably die on the fucking street or something.” She slides down a little more in the chair.

“Have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?” 

“One of the fuckers in here, I bet,” she says, “Someone shoved passed me just as the lights went out. Was probably the bastard -- he came from behind me. My back was to that other table, the one you folks weren’t sitting at.” 

>><<

Cyris collapses into the armchair and drags a hand down his face. “We’re fucked,” he groans.

“Don’t say that,” you say. 

“Just once I want to be invited to a nice dinner and not have anyone murdered or blackmailed.”

You put your hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. “We’ll find the murderer,” you say.

He looks up at you, “You think?”

You nod. Inside, you don’t feel nearly as confident. 

Cyris pushes himself to his feet, “I’m going back in.” He disappears into the main hall, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the guards. You mentally review the clues you’ve found so far: 1) they were at the opposite table, 2) they’re a mage, 3) someone isn’t who they say they are, 4)... everyone is a criminal? Damn. You only have three good clues. You run a hand through your hair. 

“In a bind?”

You jerk your head up and your eyes widen. “Comte Noir?”

Comte Noir saunters over to you, a wide smile on her face, “In the flesh -- or, rather, in spirit.” 

You reach out to touch her and your hand goes right through her shoulder. You jerk back like you’ve been burned. The guards around you don’t seem to notice her or that you’re seemingly talking to air. 

“Don’t be so scared, dear,” she says, “I’m here to help.”

“Help?”

“You’re trying to find out who killed me, aren’t you?”

You nod slowly, “Can you tell me?”

She cocks her head and taps her chin, looking thoughtful. “Well,” she says after a moment, “that wouldn’t be very fun. I could give you a few hints, though.”

You frown at her, “You can’t just tell me?”

“Looks like you’ve gotten a hint already,” she says, completely ignoring you, “here’s another: it’s on them.” 

You blink and she’s gone.

“Tabris!” Cyris comes back into the hall, “Are you coming or not?”

“Y-yeah.” You slowly turn back toward him, hoping your face isn’t as pale as you feel like it is, “Sorry, I’m coming.” You hurry with him into the main hall, but can’t pay attention to anything other than the ringing in your ears. It’s on them? What does that mean? Why do ghosts have to be so damn cryptic. 

One of the guards stops you both on the way, “Excuse me, Sers,” he says, “have you found anything yet?”

Cyris glances at you then back at the guard. “We think so,” he says, “but, uh. You wouldn’t have happened to see anything strange before the lights went out, would you?” 

The guard pauses for a moment, thinking. “No, Ser, I can’t say I did.” 

He tries not to look disappointed and nods, “Thank you.” 

The guests in the main hall seem to be nervous; they’re constantly shifting and moving and silent, like no one wants to speak in fear they might be fingered as the killer. You understand their paranoia -- if what Nasira said is correct, they’re all criminals and they’re all used to being blamed whether it was true or not. Cyris stops at your table and leans against the edge, looking out over the crowd of people. 

It’s on them. It’s on them, it’s on them, it’s on them.

What does that  _ mean?  _ What’s on who?

“Inquisitor.” Cullen appears in front of Cyris. 

“Did you find anything, Commander?” 

“Unfortunately no,” he says, frowning, “we’ve been able to narrow it down, but only by virtue of the suspects being close to the Comte when she was murdered.”

“So it’s just a guess,” Cyris says.

“Yes.”

“And has Leliana found anything?” 

“Not that I know of.” 

You walk over to the corpse and kneel down beside it, your eyes ghosting over its form in hopes of finding some clue to the killer’s identity. The knife seems like a good bet, but you don’t see any engravings or markings that might lead you to someone -- no, the only thing curious about it is that the hilt has been carved into a dragon. Interesting, but nothing that might lead you to the killer. 

“Are you really that daft?”

You look up to see the Comte standing over you, looking amused. 

“I have no clues,” you say. 

“Don’t you? I’ve given you two already.”

You scowl at her and push to your feet. “No, you haven’t. Do you even want me to find out who murdered you?”

“Whoever killed me is a mage, they were seated at that table,” she points to the one opposite you, “and they aren’t who they seem to be. Those sound like good clues to me.”

“Then you figure it out.”

She rolls her eyes and angles herself away from you, “My dear, this is ridiculous. Haven’t you read enough murder mysteries to know what you have to do? Catch someone in a lie.”

“Fuck,” you hiss. 

“Tabris.” Cyris puts his hand on your shoulder and you turn towards him. “I’ve been calling you. Did you see something?” When you look back, the Comte is gone.

You start to shake your head but stop. “I need to speak to our main suspects again.” 

“Which one first?”

“Absolutely not!” The woman who had yelled before, Lesly, pushes to her feet and snarls at the two of you, “I will not be questioned by you! For all we know, you could’ve done it! You’re just as likely as we are!”

“Ma’am --”

“Oh, come off it, Lesly,” Ragnar speaks up again, “It’s starting to sound like  _ you’re  _ the killer with all this finger-pointing you’re subjecting us to.” 

“And you? Maybe you pissed off the wrong mark this time, Ragnar,” the woman snaps. 

You watch Brynn take a long gulp of her wine out of the corner of your eye before she speaks. “Really, Lesly, this is unbecoming. They’re apart of the Inquisition, not some common thug.” 

Lesly glares at Brynn, “Maybe you did it, hm? You’ve killed before, after all.”

The room goes cold as Brynn slowly stands to her feet, her eyes fixed on Lesly’s face. “I’d watch your fucking mouth if I were you, Lady Gardet,” she says quietly.

“Ladies, please,” Kade starts, trying to step in between them, “let’s not cause anymore commotion, the Comtesse is --” 

“No, let them fight it out,” Nasira yells from where she’s draped over her chair, “make this the most interesting soiree Noir has ever thrown.” 

From behind you, Ragnar sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Maker, can we not have one nice party?”

Cyris moves toward the commotion, “Calm down both of you,” he orders, and Lesly immediately sits back in her chair. Brynn looks toward him cooly like she hadn’t just been about to murder the other. “I know this is a trying time, but you all need to cooperate if we’re going to figure out who murdered the Comte.”

Kade moves to put his hand on Lesly and she shoves him away. She says it quietly, but you catch it, barely, “Don’t touch me,  _ boy.  _ I don’t even know who you are.” 

_ Ding! _

“Uh, Kade, was it?” You smile sweetly as he turns toward you.

“Yes, Ser,” he says.

“You said your father was married to the Comtesse’s brother, correct?” 

He nods slowly, his brow furrowed, “Yes, that’s right.”

_ Ding ding!  _

You chuckle and then, deadpan, point at him and say, “Empty your pockets.”

He stares at you with his mouth open, “Excuse me?”

_ It’s on them,  _ Noir had said. You’ve finally figured it out, you think -- it’s  _ on  _ them. They still have some damning piece of evidence on their person. You step toward the table and say again, “Empty your pockets.”

“I -- this is ridiculous,” he sputters, backing away. Two guards walk up behind him and place their hands on his shoulders, keeping him from moving any farther. 

“Empty your pockets or I’ll have the guards do it for you,” you warn. 

Kade stares at you, desperately hoping to call your bluff, but after a moment he sighs and realizes he has no choice. He starts pulling parchment out of his pockets and tosses it onto the table. “She deserved it -- she was a traitor,” he snarls. 

You grab a piece of parchment before you remember you can’t read and hand it off to Cyris, annoyed. He skims the first one, tosses it aside, and then reaches for another. The second one he keeps.

“Well, well, well,” he says, a small smile on his face, “Looks like the Tevinter government didn’t want the Comte sharing this little piece of information with us -- in fact, I believe this looks like a bounty.”

“A bounty?” Leliana moves to stand beside him and takes the parchment out of his hands. “My, they did not want this secret getting out,” she says, eyebrows raised. 

“Guards, we have our killer right there,” Cyris says. The guards take Kade by the arm and lead him out of the main hall. 

You peer over Leliana’s shoulder, “What’s the bounty for?”

She moves the parchment so you can see, “Looks like someone high up in the Magisterium is conducting illegal experiments. It seems that the Magisters wanted to handle this themselves without any other country finding out or getting involved.”

“Must be quite the experiment if they went through this much trouble to keep it secret,” Cyris says. 

Leliana folds the parchment and tucks it into her costume before turning to Cyris. “I’ll look into this, Inquisitor,” she says, “If Tevinter wants it kept quiet so badly, it must be important.” 

After that, the party ends; the guards ferry the guests into their carriages and away from the state, apologizing and thanking them for attending. When the six of you are back in the carriage (Josephine had removed her circle skirt, allowing Cullen to actually sit inside), Cyris pats you on the shoulder and grins.

“Very good job, Tabris,” he says, “How did you figure it out?” 

You shrug, “I have a gift,” you say simply. 


End file.
